


White Lightning

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accents, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Books, Bootlegger Dean, Bootlegging, Canonical Character Death, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Drinking, Fluffy Ending, Interrogation, M/M, Mobsters, Murder, POV Alternating, Prison, Prohibition Officer Castiel, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year, 1932. Illegal moonshine is flowing through the south and beyond, and the rumrunners are still riding high, making millions by selling to speakeasies and the mob. Dean Winchester, son of the infamous John Winchester, owns his own still in the north Georgia mountains with Bobby Singer, John's former right-hand man, both running alcohol to Atlanta, mostly without incident until a certain blue-eyed prohibition officer gets involved with a vow to take the younger Winchester in, despite their sordid past together. An innocent chase through the hills turns into something much bigger than either can expect as the end of prohibition draws closer by the day and the two are forced to face their demons before their world crashes around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shine Runners

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a great big thanks to Museaway for throwing out the idea and then brainstorming ideas with me, and Eveanyn for helping with plot points and proofreading, horrorfemme for the awesome artwork, and most importantly my girls for generally being excited and making me slack off more than I never have before. I woulda never've thought of this without y'all!
> 
> This is my first WIP that I'm posting as I go, so hopefully I'll be able to get things out consistantly! I'm hoping my upcoming semester won't be a pain in my side so I can actually _work_ on this. I'm so excited, you have no idea. 
> 
> The title is from the George Jones song of the same name. (Hooray really old country songs.)
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy!

 

 

“You’re gonna need to pick up the pace a bit, boy,” a haggard voice barked at him from the passenger seat, one of the man’s aged hands clutching the front dash and the other around the grip of his submachine gun out the window, finger on the trigger. A shot rang out from their pursuant, his partner firing back a dozen rounds without hesitation, the other vehicle’s windshield spider webbing in his rearview. “He’s right on your ass—.”

“I know he’s on my ass, Bobby, get off my case!” Foot to the accelerator, he waited for Bobby to return to his seat before taking a sharp turn onto a dirt road, kicking up dust through the woods of the Appalachia’s, that stupid Packard _still_ on his tail – he should have run out of gas miles ago. Unless it had a second tank shoved somewhere in its back end, there was no reason for it to be so close to gaining on him, so close to pushing him off into a tree and sending both him and Bobby through the front window. If he survived, he would have a hell of a time trying to repair _that_ and the bloodied dents he knew they would leave behind.

“Well you’re gonna need to get on it _faster_ ,” Bobby shouted, leaning out the window again, firing off another dozen rounds, bullets pinging off the grill and shattering a headlight, “or you’re gonna put us both in the big house sooner than later!”

“You try drivin’ with them behind you!” The tachometer was bordering the red line as he punched it, hoping that he wouldn't blow the engine in the middle of nowhere. That was the _last_ thing they needed; civilization was miles away in either direction. “Here, switch with me!” he shouted over the roar of the wind. He made sure they were on a straightaway before Bobby pulled back in through the window, sliding over the drivers seat while he crawled over him, taking his position as gunman. “Get to the highway, we’ll lose ‘em there!”

“Easier said than done, boy!”

They still had another mile or two back to the main road, and another five after that to get to US 76 out of Blue Ridge. Hopefully they could get into town before that red monstrosity caught them – he wasn't going back to the Pen with all of the other runners, not again. Two stints was enough for his blood. Get their payload to Atlanta, that was the job. After that, he could prowl around the city and leave for the still in the cover of night to do it all over again.

That hadn’t been the case in the past hour – someone must have ratted him out or stalked the still for the past week while he worked; it wouldn't have been the first time. At least the _last_ time, it was someone from a setup about a mile out; since, they had collaborated their efforts and constructed a still larger than anyone else in the tri-state area. Getting the product into town wasn't the issue – it was the Feds prowling the area, waiting for someone to slip up. And that someone was _him_ with his boss in the drivers seat, trying to get them out of dodge before he ran out of bullets or flew out of the window, whichever came first. At least they had gotten the batch loaded and moving before they started their chase.

Someone screwed up somewhere; there wasn’t any time to ruminate on it. He fired another round towards the other’s windshield, both the driver and passenger ducking behind the dash, _still_ managing to keep a straight line, even banking a curve with ease. “You gotta shake ‘em,” he shouted over the hail of gunfire and the roar of the engine, ducking inside while the other passenger fired back, shooting out his side mirror. “He’s puttin’ holes in my damn car!”

“Hang onto your britches, boy.” Bobby yanked him back inside by his suspenders, clocking his head on the roof in the process. “We’re ‘bout to hit asphalt!”

With another push of the accelerator, the Chevy jumped the curb and pulled onto the paved road, white-walled tires digging in and hurtling them down the flat stretch, the Packard about four hundred feet back and gaining. They could lose them – they had the muscle and speed, and more enthusiasm than everyone in Atlanta combined. The problem was the _damn_ thing caught up to them every time, close enough to where he could see the whites of their eyes.

Specifically the drivers. He could recognize those eyes anywhere, from chance encounters to the fact that that _blasted_ man had shoved him into a holding cell himself. “ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed, lips curling into a scowl. “The Novaks’re drivin’.”

“The _Fed_ Novaks?” Bobby pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and handed it over. “Get ‘em between the eyes.”

“Will do.”

He sat in the window jamb and hooked his feet under the front seat, hoping it would keep him still while he pointed both firearms at them just as the passenger did the same with a megaphone, a brown-haired man with meticulously styled hair glaring back at him. “Dean Winchester, pull _over_! You know you’re not getting out of this one!”

He laughed, shouting, “eat me, Novaks!” before shooting out both left tires, sending them into a skid and careening off into a ditch, the man in the door being thrown out into a bush. In the increasing distance, he watched the driver throw his door open and fire off two rounds at them, neither hitting their mark. Back inside, he clapped Bobby on the shoulder and threw both weapons in the back seat, propping his feet up near the shattered side mirror. “Goin’ to Atlanta, baby!”

Bobby growled out an affirmative. Dean grinned – they were in the clear.

-+-+-+-+-+-

He was starting to think he could actually make a living off running liquor for his boss, no matter if the Feds caught up to him or not. Thumbs tugging at his suspenders, Dean watched Crowley’s lackeys pull case after case of mason jars and from the back of his black 1932 Chevrolet Confederate Special, carrying them into a warehouse in the heart of downtown Atlanta, all while the man himself kept yapping in his ear about how he was being _reckless_ , how he could have _died_ , “and then what would I do without my best man?”

“I think you’d live,” Dean managed through a drawl, snapping the suspenders to his chest. Crowley rolled his eyes, crossing his arms against the black suit he wore, fingers drumming the fabric. “’Sides, y’got Benny, right? He’s hell of a better runner than I am, I ’on’t know why you don't call him up more.”

“Be _cause_ , dear,” Crowley patted his shoulder, pointing him towards his bullet-riddled car, “he doesn’t have what you have. His dinky little _Ford_ doesn’t get _half_ the speed of what _yours_ does. He’s more suited for the… short haul, up into Tennessee. You’re younger, and single, I might add – you have the _resilience_ he doesn't. He wouldn't throw himself into the line of fire, not with that pretty little wife of his.”

“Hey, don’t be bringin’ her into this—.”

“You’re forgetting, Dean,” Crowley turned to face him, hands on his shoulders, “that I _own_ this little operation, and that beautiful American piece of shit I’m _allowing_ you to drive. For _me_. You wouldn't _be_ here if it weren’t for what I’ve done for you.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” He brushed off Crowley’s hands and turned his back, walking over to slam the suicide doors of his car shut. “I was _fine_ before you decided to waltz in like you _owned_ the damn place. I made good cash out in Asheville!”

“And you’re making double with me!” From an interior pocket of his jacket, he produced a manila envelope and shoved it into Dean’s hand, all while squinting near-scarlet eyes at him. “That’s three hundred and fifty, cash. Plenty to keep you occupied until I need your next batch. Which is next Friday, I might add.” He waved to the Chevy. “You’ll be needing it to repair my car.”

“Can’t see it bein’ your car since you’ve never driven it.” He pulled a pack of Lucky’s and a matchbook from his back pocket, lighting the cigarette and blowing smoke from between his lips. “You ain’t even touched it, have you?”

“I don’t have to touch it to know it’s mine.” Crowley waved off the smoke Dean puffed in his face, wrinkling his nose. “Spend your money wisely. Who did you manage to piss off _today_ , might I ask?”

He shrugged. “Had the Novaks on my tail couple’a miles outside McCaysville. Put ‘em in the ditch. I ‘ont think they’re gonna be gettin’ outta that one any time soon.”

“I’d be worried about your inner circle, Dean.” Crowley headed in the direction of the loading bay, stopping at his rear bumper. “If the Novaks continue to run into you like they do, I’d start questioning _why_.”

“It’s a coincidence.” Wasn’t it? Other than Benny and Bobby, he had no one that would even remotely consider running to the authorities. Atlanta _depended_ on him and his business, especially in the fourth ward and the surrounding neighborhoods. If it weren’t for him – and _Crowley_ , by default – the rest of the populous would be drunk or dead on rotgut or whatever they could cook in their bathtubs. He was saving them, in a disturbed way, keeping them from drinking poison by feeding them something mildly less toxic, all while keeping under the radar. All word of mouth, all underground.

The last thing any of them needed was a raid.

“Coincidence or not, you have an _intimate_ relationship with the law. I’d suggest you tidy up your establishment. You, my friend, have a _rat_.”

From the loading dock, he saw Bobby cross paths with Crowley, the former looking more than miffed at the others presence, the latter clearly amused. “I can’t believe you’re still sellin’ to him, boy,” he told Dean as they crawled back into the front seat, Bobby shrugging off his jacket and tossing it to mingle with his own on the back bench. “He’s gonna bury you, one o’ these days.”

“I’d like to see ‘im try.” He rolled up his sleeves and started the ignition. “I’m thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ over to the Ritz for supper, you want me to drop you off at the house?”

“’Fraid so. I’ve had enough excitement for one lifetime.”

Dean patted the steering wheel. “Ain’t the first time we’ve been shot at by them, that’s for damn sure.”

“One’a these days, they’re gonna put a bullet in one of u—.”

“ _Shut up,_ Bobby.” He turned to look over his shoulder, making sure he wouldn't intentionally back over one of the warehouse workers. That last guy still hadn’t forgiven him for breaking his foot. “None’a us’re gonna die. We’re just runnin’ hooch. We’re not about to get _killed_ for it, y’hear?”

Bobby didn't bother to answer, the rest of their drive consumed in silence. Dean parked in the driveway of their home in the fourth ward, a one-story two bedroom home with an attached porch, all painted white, stopping next to their additional car, a Packard De Luxe Eight he bought for Bobby earlier in the month. That would be his mode of transport while he took it to the shop to fix the holes in his Chevy; a car riddled in bullet holes would attract the wrong kind of attention, especially in the higher class part of town. He already got in enough trouble as it was with dressing in the manner he did, always with the suspenders and shirt barely tucked into his pants, fedora always tilted in some haphazard manner. At least his looks made up for it, or so the women said wherever he ventured. Men too, now that he thought about it. A comment on his eyes here, ruffling of his hair there, and sometimes the more adventurous of fellows would fiddle with his suspenders and snap them at will.

He couldn't afford to wear much else, not like Crowley and the rest of his posse, all the men dressed to the nines in tailored suits and perpetually polished shoes, never once breaking a sweat. This was _Georgia_ , and in the middle of summer, at that. He didn't know how they did it – _someone_ had to stroke out at some point. They weren’t from around there, he figured; living in the state for majority of his life had taught him to wear the bare basics unless absolutely necessary and carry on him what was most important, namely his wallet and the keys to his car, no matter how often Crowley praised it as _his_.

The Ritz demanded better than his kind, though. No farm boy from Valdosta would be able to walk in off the street, no; a good portion of his closet was dedicated to appearances, mostly for his trips across the southeast with Crowley, and that one stint in Vegas a few years back. _Never again._

Kicking off his shoes at the door, he wandered the sparsely decorated halls of his and Bobby’s shared home, stripping off his sweat-stained shirt and slacks as he crossed the threshold to his bedroom and tossing them in the growing pile by the door. Tomorrow was laundry day; he could deal with it then. For now, he settled on a fresh white shirt and a new navy blue pinstriped suit, still smelling of the perfume the department store that sold it to him used; at least it would cover the stink of adrenaline. In the bedroom mirror on the wall, he looped his favorite tie – striped hunter green and white – around his neck and tied it, making sure his suspenders were in place before he pulled his suit jacket on. He shrugged at his reflection; it would work.

Bobby cleared his throat at the door, the keys to the Packard dangling from between his fingers. “You gonna be back before six?” he asked, tossing over the fob.

Dean caught it, shoving it into his breast pocket. “It’s what, three now? You know I’ll be back by then.” He grabbed his fedora from the rack on the wall. “What time’s the library expecting you to come in?”

“Five thirty at the earliest.” He followed Dean towards the front door, hands shoved deep in his pants pockets. “You bring her back in one piece, you hear me?”

“ _Bobby_ ,” he whined, turning to face him. “’M not gonna wreck her. You know I wouldn't.”

“I know.” Bobby patted his cheek. “I already put one o’ you Winchesters in the ground, I’m not gonna do it again. Y’hear me?”

Dean nodded – it was the _least_ he could do for the man that had taken him in all those years ago, that had acted as more of a father than his own. Being the son of the legendary _John Winchester_ had its perks and drawbacks, like being asked on a weekly basis just _who_ he was and how he died, and _why_ , above all. He didn't like to talk about it. The past was the past; there was no use dredging up memories he wasn’t prepared to face.

The Packard, pearl black with white-walled tires, was infinitely nicer than what he drove around, somewhat slower, but it made a statement driving around town. In the middle of what the papers were calling the _depression_ , he had more class than most of Atlanta’s residents. No one asked where the money came from or why he was there in the first place; they already knew, most grateful for the work he did, putting himself on the line just to keep everyone happy. Whether he made any cash or not didn't matter, as long as he got to keep doing what he loved. Cars, booze, and whatever tail he could chase down for the night. What a life.

The crowd inside the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant that Monday afternoon was next to nothing; a couple seated at a booth, three men chatting amongst themselves at a circular table in the middle of the room, and a brunette in a long black dress chatting up the bored man at the concierge desk, cigarette dangling from between her red-painted lips. If his actions weren’t being ruled by his stomach, he would have invited her home, let her stay for breakfast. The incessant need to _eat_ had him walking past the pair and to an empty booth along the back wall, removing his hat while the waitress handed him a menu, afterwards returning to her conversation with another woman near the kitchen doors.

He wasn't alone for more than two minutes before someone decided to join him, sitting across from him in the booth, looking all the bit worn down, black circles outlining the bluest eyes he had never hoped to see again. “Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, Novak,” Dean cooed, leaning back in his seat. “How’s life since the last time you dragged my ass in, Cas?”

“You know damn well how my life’s been.” Novak – _Castiel_ Novak – pinched the bridge of his nose, not bothering to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit, black fabric spattered with dust and mud at his wrists and elbows. His tie was even backwards, probably fastened in the haste of the morning. How _did_ they find him, anyway? “You shot out my tires.”

“You shouldn't’ve been chasin’ me,” Dean sneered. “Ain’t I told you before, anything above Ellijay is _mine_. And y’ain’t never gonna catch me, either.”

“I’m looking forward to the day I can bring you in and keep you there.” The waitress returned before Castiel could get in another word, Dean ordering his usual and the same for his booth mate, no matter how much the man tried to protest. He continued after she left, “you owe me, cash. You damaged a federal officer’s property and almost _killed_ my brother.”

“Well, he shouldn't’ve been hangin’ out the window now, should he?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and a lighter, lighting his before thinking to offer Castiel one. “Sounds to me like he was askin’ for it.”

Castiel blew smoke in his face. “I highly doubt it, considering you’re just as guilty.” He tapped the ashes out in the tray between them, rapping his nails on the table. “I take it you delivered your product on time?”

“What product?” He smirked; Castiel didn't find it amusing. “Far as I see it, you got nothin’ on me. Can’t arrest me if I’m not in the act. So why don't you just run on home to your boss and get off my ass?”

“Because your ass has been a persistent thorn in my side since the day you moved into _my_ turf. You’re in my town, Winchester. And I can do whatever I want while I’m here.” He folded his hands on the table, cigarette between pursed lips as he leant in close, a few strands of dark hair failing to obscure the intensity in his eyes. “And if that includes getting you on speeding or trafficking, or your _father’s_ business, I’ll handcuff you faster than you can reach your precious Chevy.”

“Like it when you get frisky with me, Cas.” He watched Castiel jump as he slid the toe of his shoe up the inside of his leg, catching him under his knee. “Why don’t you put those handcuffs to good use tonight? You can come back to my place,” he reached out to run his fingers over the top of Castiel’s hand, the skin beneath him tensing, “and cuff me to the headboard. I’ll confess to whatever you want, _officer_.”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you?” Castiel glared him down, slapping Dean’s palm down on the table. “I could bring you in right now. I may not have _proof_ , but I can hold you long enough to get you to crack.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and I might skip out on the meal.” His wink had Castiel’s eyes narrowing further.

“Oh, no, we’re staying. Think of this as _repayment_ for my tires.”

Castiel didn't show up at his front door until after eight, long after Bobby drove off to the Carnegie Library across town, the bullet-riddled red Packard 840 Roadster taking the empty spot in the driveway. Castiel was going to have a hell of a time explaining _that_ one to his boss, along with the fact that his suspect got away. _And_ , if he dared, how he got scratch marks on the back of his neck, all before he pinned Dean to the wall, threw him on the bed, kissed him within an inch of his life, ravishing him for all the neighbors to hear through brick walls. Not that they had cared in the past, anyway.

Maybe they would now; the first night in a week he had gotten alone, and he was too busy being fucked into his cheap mattress to keep his mouth shut. Castiel wasn't making it any better, having gotten him there in the _first_ place, actually following through with Dean’s earlier suggestion and cuffing him to the wrought-iron headboard, making sure he couldn't leave anymore evidence behind while he shoved his knees up towards his head and had his way with him. “Gonna have to go—harder than— _that_ if you want anythin’ outta me— _fuck_ , Cas!”

“Keep quiet, or I’m gagging you with my tie.” Castiel dropped one of his legs to the bed and yanked his head back by the roots of his hair, shoving into him faster, _harder_ , the blue of his eyes eclipsed by black in the dim light of his room. “You insolent, self-righteous—.”

“Oh, talk dirty to me, baby.” Castiel tugged at his hair tighter, earning a hiss, the heel of Dean’s foot thumping against his ass, pulling him closer. “Been a while for ya, ain’t it?”

He grunted at the feeling of teeth nipping the juncture of his neck and shoulder, tongue tracing the skin before biting down  _hard_ , another mark to join his growing collection. “That’s none of your business,” he heard when Castiel pulled back, letting up on the death-grip he had on his hair and moving to hook his arms around Dean’s knees to leave his feet in the air, gripping the sheets at his sides. “I’m not here to—be your friend.”

“Breakin’ my heart, darlin’. Breakin’ my—oh fuck, there—.” He pulled at his bindings, the exertion-warmed steel digging into his wrists in his futile attempt to reach out and hold on. Begging wasn't anywhere in his playbook; he used his hands to speak the words he couldn't himself say, and being robbed of mobility had him writhing, angling his hips to feel his dick against his prostate, fucking himself back on his cock with each thrust until his eyes were rolling back. “C’mon, baby, you gonna come?”

“ _Fuck_ you, Winchester.” His chance to retort was cut short by a biting kiss, more teeth and tongue and harsh breaths than anything resembling finesse. Castiel picked up the pace then, twisting the sheets beneath them in his hands, the sound of skin against skin failing to drown out the obscenities Dean panted, hands grasping at air for dear life. “Gonna— _Dean_ —.”

“In me, in me, oh _God, Cas_ —.” Castiel bit into the scar nearest his shoulder without hesitation, the bright burst of pain barely enough to offset the feeling of his cum filling his ass, hips stuttering, grinding into his own with the need to bury himself deeper. Dean let his head fall back with a groan as he felt Castiel pull out, only to shove two fingers back inside and rub incessantly at the nub that sent his vision white, the knowledge that he was fucking him with his own _cum_ leaving his toes curling into nothing.

“This is what gets you off, right?” Castiel hummed, lowering himself onto his side next to Dean, sucking the skin beneath his ear. “Seducing the lawmen that want to take you in? How many have you done this to, Winchester?” Dean didn't answer, too lost in his impending orgasm to care, cock bubbling precum onto his stomach, down his side. “They’ve never gotten as close as I have. They won’t catch you, but _I_ will.” He kissed down the length of his throat before reaching his lips, smirking there. “One of these days, you’ll be mine.”

Out of all the things to make him come in the past, he never expected a man’s _voice_ would do him in, leaving him winded, gasping as white streaked his stomach, a drop catching his chin. Castiel let up after that, finally pulling out and leaving Dean to clench around air, whining, riding the aftershocks down until his breathing settled and he smelt smoke waft through the air.

“Fuck, uncuff me and gimme one’a those.” Castiel rolled his eyes before standing on unsteady legs, retrieving both the key and a washrag from the dresser by the door, cigarette between kiss-swollen lips. “Y’look good like that, all scratched up.”

“No thanks to you.” Castiel unlocked the cuffs with clear reluctance, tossing them on the bed and scrounging up his clothing, scattered about the room. Dean took the rag after stretching out his arms and rubbing the raw skin of his wrists, wiping himself down while the officer watched, a perpetual scowl on his lips. “You’re lucky I don’t bring you in for this.”

“For what? Taking you to bed with me?” Dean cast the rag aside and reached over the bed for his slacks. “’S far as I’m concerned, you were the one that brought it up.” He laughed at Castiel’s growl. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart. You enjoyed it _just_ as much as I did.”

“That doesn’t mean it was _right_.” Slacks on, Castiel shrugged on his shirt, buttoning down the front. “I swear, if you speak a _word_ of this—.”

“What, you’ll _arrest_ me?” Dean scoffed. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.” He crossed the room with his pants barely on his hips, belt hanging loose out of its loops. He pulled the cigarette from between Castiel’s lips, catching him in a quick, wet kiss before taking a drag. “You’ll just have to try harder next time, won’t you?”

“Hopefully not _too_ hard.” Castiel took the cigarette from him, promptly stomping it out on the floor. “You’ll slip up soon. We’re close to finding your still. It won't be long before we bring you and whoever you’re working for down.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Dean tugged him in with a hand to the back of his neck, Castiel groaning into their kiss, reaching up to where he had bit down earlier, rolling the circle of puckered skin there between his fingers. “Were you in the war?”

“What?” Dean pulled back an inch, eyeing the scar the officer was thumbing, closing his eyes to the sight. “No. I was only thirteen, too young.”

“Kids don’t get shot for no reason, Dean,” Castiel commented. “What were you doing?”

“ _Nothin_ ’, alright?” He reached down to grab the rest of Castiel’s clothing, shoving them at him. “It was nothin’. All in the past. Ain’t your job to be worryin’ ‘bout what I get into.”

“You’re right, it’s not.” Castiel hung his tie around his neck and folded his jacket, hanging it over one arm. “I don’t care whether you live or die. But it’s my job to bring you in _alive_. So don’t do anything _stupid_ , do you understand me?”

“You’re not my dad, Cas. You got no authority over me, so shove it.” He slung open his door and led Castiel out into the hall without a word, not bothering to look back in the off chance Castiel might be expressing anything other than his usual contempt. Through the closed blinds of the living room, he saw the lights of a car head in his direction, parking out on the curb in front of his house. “ _Shit_ , he wasn’t supposed to be _back_ yet!”

Bobby was slamming the door to his Packard by the time Dean got the front door open, Castiel trailing out after him, clothing wrinkled and hair an unkempt mess with a purpled mark glaringly obvious on his neck. He laughed at the aggravated scowl he got from across the yard; he didn't look much better either, littered in bites and scratches, the hand-shaped bruises on his ass thankfully hidden by his pants. At least _those_ wouldn't be up for discussion tomorrow. “Novak, don’t you have work to do downtown?” Bobby growled as he walked across the green grass, hands in his pockets.

“Apologies, Singer.” Castiel didn't bother to acknowledge either of them again, walking to his car and popping the door latch, starting the engine thereafter.

“You’re _stupid_ , boy, you know that?” Bobby said to him over the noise of the red Packard pulling out of their driveway, taillights disappearing beyond the trees. He pulled Dean aside and pushed him into one of the support beams, his scowl tightening the tired wrinkles on either side of his eyes. “You let him find out where we _live_?”

“He can’t do anything to us, Bobby,” Dean said, low. “He doesn’t have proof. And he never _will_ , a’ight? I didn’t say anythin’ to him, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”

“You’re _damn_ right you didn’t. We didn’t work this hard to have you _screw_ up. He’s not as dumb as you think he is, boy.”

“He’s dumb enough to leave his cuffs.” He nodded towards the house; Bobby shaking his head in defeat. “He’ll be hearin’ ‘bout that one at the office for a while. And while he’s doin’ that, I gotta go upstate Wednesday to check the mash. Crowley wants us to deliver on Friday.”

“That’s barely two weeks, is he _insane_?”

“He gave us seventy-five more this week to get it done. And I’m gonna get Benny in on it too, I’ve got this covered.” He sighed, taking a step towards the door. “’Sides, I’m sure Jody’s gonna wanna see you at work this week. You’re the one keepin’ us lookin’ legit, y’know?”

He jumped at Bobby’s hand landing on his shoulder, pulling him back a step. He anticipated anger, maybe a slap to the cheek – he received a grimace instead, the older man’s eyes shining in the flickering porch light. “You just… I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful. You’re the only one I _got_ , since your brother left.”

“I know, Bobby.” Truly, he did. Their lives hadn’t been the same since Sam headed out west, their only communication with him in the form of bi-monthly telephone calls and an occasional post card. Apparently being a private investigator left him with no time for casual conversation. “And I’m _tryin_ ’. We both know how this works, we both know they ain’t got anything on us, and we’re gonna keep it that way. If we gotta keep moving, then we will! They’re not gonna get me again.”

“They better not.” With a final pat, Bobby walked inside, leaving him to rub the wound in his shoulder in the dark of the stagnant night, trying his hardest to forget the heaviness in his heart.


	2. Bad Day

Stupid Winchester. Stupid _fucking_ Winchester with his machine gun and sweet-talking nature and innate ability to drag anyone to bed without knowing what hit them. For five _years_ Castiel had pursued that man through the brush in the Appalachia’s, always in different areas, always with a different tactic or posse at his side. He really should have anticipated it, stumbling across the black behemoth of a Chevy gunning it down a deserted road in the middle of nowhere with his load in the back. He had been so _close_ , too, nearly pushing him off the road several times before the initial shots were fired.

It was a miracle either of them got out alive. Gabriel was nursing a head injury at his desk in the other room, compress pressed to the back of his head, every few minutes wincing with each tilt of his head. It was a miracle he hadn’t cracked his skull on impact, only ending up with a nasty gash that required more stitches than he wanted to look at. By some marvel he was able to drag him into the car and sit him _still_ while he replaced both tires by hand, the entire process too taxing to even think about. His brother was still alive, though; that was all that mattered. The repairs to the Packard would come from his own pocket, most likely; he had a feeling the Agency wouldn't foot the bill for a vehicle that wasn't their own.

The ceiling lights and the shuffling of papers in the work room outside his office had his head pounding, the incessant chatter of his fellow agents through the glass-paned wall doing nothing to quell his budding migraine. Adrenaline and too many sleepless nights had him threatening to collapse at any given moment. At least Balthazar and Anna were sympathetic, leaving a note on his door to alert anyone in passing to not disturb him or face dire consequences. Whenever he was cognizant enough to enact said consequences, at least.

For now, Castiel occupied himself by shutting off the lights of his office, pulling the blinds closed and laying on the cool tile floor, suit jacket draped over his face in the hopes of obscuring any other light from bleeding through his eyelids. Last he checked, his watch read 9:12; _someone_ decided to make their entrance a grand total of five minutes later, knocking his ankle with the door rail. “Cassie, Naomi wants to see—Why are you on the floor?”

He couldn't even bring himself to _whine_ , settling for an undignified grunt. “Don’t want to talk about it, Gabriel.”

“C’mon, bro, what’s got you so down and out?” At least Gabriel had the common courtesy to close the door before he crossed the room to sit at his desk, hissing along the way. “Moping over your big brother gettin’ his head smashed in?”

“ _No_ ,” he growled, waving a hand in his direction. “I’ve been working graveyard for the last _week_ and I think I may have a psychotic break if I don’t sleep in the next five minutes. It’s _impossible_ when she’s breathing down my neck at all hours of the day.”

“Yeah, well, she’ll have you bent over if you don’t get in there.” He heard Gabriel prop his feet up on his desk, probably leaning back in the chair; he would need to clean off the scuffmarks later. “What’s got you wallowing? I haven’t seen you that bad off since that boy got away from you in Rabun two years ago.” Castiel didn’t answer. “That bad, huh?”

“I’d prefer to sulk with you at your own desk,” he groaned, draping an arm over his already covered eyes. “Your voice is grating.”

“You love when I talk and you know it.” Across the room, Gabriel’s shoes hit the floor, heels clicking. “You know what you need? You, Cassie, need to go down into the Fourth Ward and pick yourself up someone nice for the night. How’s that sound?”

“Already did that.” He kicked in the vague direction of the last place he heard Gabriel step, failing to hit his ankle. “Sex isn’t as cathartic to me as it is to you.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you got home so late!” Gabriel laughed, the sound sending a fresh wave of pain through his temple. “I thought you went to the doc like I _told_ you to do on your way back from here.”

Crap, _that_ was what he forgot to do – a certain _someone_ was more of a distraction than he remembered. “I’m sorry—.”

“So who was it?” Gabriel glanced over his apology and clapped his hands; how long would it take for him to dispose of his body? Castiel highly doubted any of his coworkers would miss him if he mysteriously disappeared. “That redhead you’ve been eyeing from D.C.? Rowena’s taken a real shine to you.” Fingers rapped the desktop. “Or maybe good ol’ boy Michael. You know, you attract a lot of older—.”

“It’s not any of them,” Castiel groused. “I’d appreciate it if you left—.”

“Or wait! Are you seeing Gad again?”

“Gabriel!” Castiel bolted up, jacket flying off his face and landing in his lap; the glare of the overhead lights – _he turned the lights back on_! – had him immediately regretting his decision. “I didn’t sleep with anyone from the _department_ , so if you would just leave it _alone_ , that would be _fantastic_.”

“Why so defensive, Cassie?” Standing, Gabriel moved to help Castiel to his feet, hand on his forearm. “It’s not like you went to bed with— _Wait_.”

Crap. “ _Don’t_ —.”

“You totally _did_ , you _hound_!” Gabriel slapped the back of his head, scowling, tone hushed. “You’re supposed to be _arresting_ him, not _screwing_ him! If Naomi finds out—.”

“She’s not _going_ to.” Castiel brushed him off. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. And it’s none of your concern either, understand?”

“It’s my concern when you’re fucking a _known trafficker_.” The hand to his shoulder stopped him from retreating, his brother whipping him around and shoving him back into the glass-paned wall, blinds skewing in every direction. “You know he’s involved with Fergus Crowley, right?”

Castiel shoved him away again, backing Gabriel into the desk. “I’m well _aware_ of what he does, in every capacity. And until we find his still or we have reasonable suspicion that Crowley has a storefront in the downtown area, at _all_ , we can do nothing to stop _either_ of them. We’re not Michael or Raphael, we don’t just _shoot_ everyone on sight! We need to bring them in _alive_ , and with their limbs in tact. So, you’re going to keep your mouth shut, and you’re not going to speak a word of it.”

“You’re getting in over your head here, Cassie,” Gabriel called to him, but he didn't listen, already out the door to his office and walking amongst the white-walled, desk littered room, every agent there in a state of constant panic, shuffling papers, shouting into telephones, running from person to person in hope to learn answers to unasked questions. “You’re gonna burn this whole place down!”

Naomi’s office on the top floor hadn’t changed since the last time he saw it, painted the most blinding white imaginable with multiple square-shaped frosted-glass windows on the west wall and oddly placed rectangular portholes behind her desk. The black of his loafers stood out against the pureness of the marble tile beneath his feet, the darker gray patterns swirling in spirals and odd waves, all of it doing nothing to alleviate the pressure behind his eyes and the overwhelming need to pass out for twelve hours straight. And amongst it all behind her ash-paneled desk was Naomi Pendergrass in her gray suit and tie, brown hair pulled back into a bun, tapping a pen on the manila folders stacked three inches high before her.

“You were late into the office this morning,” Naomi started, blue eyes narrowed. He moved to seat himself in one of the two leather-backed chairs facing her desk, the cushion too comfortable for his liking. A false sense of security before the law was laid down to anyone who dared to sit there. “Any particular reason why?”

It was too early in the morning for this. “I had to take Gabriel to the hospital after our altercation yesterday, I’m sure you’re aware. I left the paperwork with your secretary.”

“Now you _know_ , Castiel, that that isn’t the whole truth.” Leaning across her desk, she continued her incessant pen tapping, scrutinizing his very existence with every blink. “I have it on good authority that your car was spotted in the Fourth Ward at an unidentified home at the same time you _claim_ to have been at Grady. Now,” she passed him one of her folders and opened to his debriefing document, “where _were_ you?” He opened his mouth to give _some_ sort of explanation, Naomi cutting him off with, “I’m not here to judge what you do with your extracurricular activities, but you’ve been late several days over the last year and you’re starting to stir… _talk_.”

“Talk?” Castiel balked – what _kind_ of talk? Did they think he was hiring prostitutes around town? That was more Balthazar’s domain, or even _Gabriel_ , not his own. “You’re assuming I’m hiring—You think I’m seeing a _harlot_?” He fell back in the too-plush chair, eyes wide.

“You wouldn't be the first,” she shrugged. “But you _would_ be the first to _lie_ about it. Honestly, Castiel, I thought I knew you better.”

 _You don’t know me at all._ He was beginning to question why she had someone tailing him in the early evening hours anyway, unless Naomi was more suspicious than she let on. What if she _knew_? She had been the one to task him with Winchester’s capture in the first place and he _still_ had nothing to show for it other than a few defunct stills and a few known associates imprisoned at the penitentiary. She was probably getting fed up – _she_ wasn't the one chasing a dead end for the past half-decade. _She_ wasn't the one running through the backwoods of Georgia looking for the source to Atlanta’s moonshine trade. Balthazar and Adam were in charge of looking for Crowley’s storefront, and they hadn’t gotten any farther in their effort, thwarted by false names and too many cops not knowing what they were talking about. Why wasn't she hammering _them_?

“You’re right,” he lied, crossing his arms. “I—I hired a prostitute last night. I have been for— _several_ nights.” He was going to be struck by lightning if he kept it up. “I’m sure anyone else in this office would admit to it, as well.”

Naomi sat back, lips pursed. “You’re aware that what you’re doing is illegal within the city limits, aren’t you?”

“And if you didn’t have me working both nights and trying to uncover Crowley’s assets, I wouldn't _need_ to, now, would I?” His statement had Naomi narrowing her eyes, now stabbing the nib of her pen into the inside of Castiel’s folder, creating a dark blot on the pale surface. “Can I go now? I’m needed at the Carnegie across town.”

“You’ll go when I _damn_ well tell you you can.” Naomi stood, hands braced on the desktop, her gaze sending a shudder through him. “Now, I know you’re lying, Castiel. But I just don’t know about what. So unless you can keep your story straight or you grow a pair and _admit_ to what you’ve been doing on the Agency’s dollar, I’d fess up. Is there anything you have to say for yourself?”

He matched her glare. “No, ma’am.”

She paused for the briefest of seconds before waving him towards the door, turning her back on him. “You have one week, Castiel. Either you finish your assignment and bring Winchester and his entire operation in, or I’m doing it _for_ you. You understand, don’t you? What lengths I have to take to keep everything _in line_.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He did, truly – the last raid had been a bloodbath of exceptional proportions, underneath a piano store in Chicago. On even the best of days, he could still hear their screams grating away in his ears. Naomi was nothing if not ruthless, calculating and colder than any woman he had ever met. She knew what she wanted out of her minions, and knew how to get her way, even at the expense of her own officers. He had to stay on her good side – he didn't want to end up like them.

Gabriel cast him a disdainful glare from across the work worm as he left, the weight of it heavy on his shoulders. He paid no attention, instead moving to grab his jacket from off the floor of his office and flip off the lights, ripping the note from his door and locking it behind him and leaving for his car, parked in the middle of the pouring rain outside the office; at least he had remembered to leave the top up. He reveled in the constant patter of rain on the cloth roof, cascading off the sides and into the water-soaked streets, chilling the perpetually heated air and settling the throb behind his eyes. He could stay there, bask in the midmorning air and escape the situation at hand, maybe drive out of state and never look back if it meant escaping what Naomi had put on him. As long as he was employed, he was burdened to do her bidding.

But how was he supposed to catch him when he didn't _want_ to? He had a contractual obligation to bring Winchester in, but at what cost? He would go to jail, and Castiel would go back to his day-to-day job fighting to stop the importation of illegal spirits for his foreseeable future. But then there was Dean, always managing to trip him up, keep him on his toes, and just when he thought he might have caught him in the act, he was gone. Vanished without a trace, never to be seen until their paths crossed again. In restaurants, on the streets, in the back of cars, each other’s beds – he had Castiel where he wanted him. It went against his very nature to continue such a relationship while knowing full and well the repercussions if he were discovered. Fired, barred from working for the government until he died, his entire life destroyed by one flick of Naomi’s finger.

All because of _one_ man.

He needed to keep straight – arrest Winchester in the act and continue on with his life. It was nothing – their kisses, late night discussions, the _touching_ , it all meant nothing, all done in the heat of the moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing. That was what he told himself through his drive from upper east side to the Carnegie Library on Williams and Forsyth, parking in one of the many open spots at the west entrance. He had a room reserved for the day; hopefully the maps he requested would be available at the front desk, if the clerk hadn’t forgotten. Alfie didn't deserve being reprimanded for his occasional slip-ups, especially for things neither of them were in control over.

Thankfully to both his and the other patron’s sanity, a white cardboard box with a paper bearing his cover name clipped to the front had been left for him, and his reserved room at the back of the campus was empty, black-out curtains pulled closed. Five hours was enough time to pour over maps and maybe nap on the couch, if his head got the better of him. They would have to drag him out by his ankles, if so.

On the second floor and past stacks of older first editions and the special collections section, he locked himself in his ten-by-nine room, setting the box atop the rounded table on the right end of the room, a black-leather couch at his back, still smelling faintly of the tannery that manufactured it. At least with the curtains, he could block out the light from the exterior hallway and save himself from hiding under his jacket again. It was a miracle he could _drive_.

At first glance, the multitude of maps spread out before him were utterly eventful, each displaying different swaths of land over the entirety of the southern Appalachia region, spreading from Virginia down to the Piedmont of Georgia, the larger of the collection marked with red dots and lines in a north to south pattern. _The trail_ , he mused, pulling a marker from the bottom of the box and popping the cap between his teeth.

All the way down from Roanoke to the most recent sighting at McCaysville, Castiel had marked every location he had spotted Dean in the past with circles, near-captures with x’s, and abandoned stills with diamonds. Five sites in all, all concentrating around the Georgia-Tennessee border, never more than fifty miles apart. On a smaller map, he had lined several back roads with black ink, crossing out dead ends and circling potential leads. With another pen, he drew another circle about ten miles from the last sighting, giving him an approximate of where the still _might_ have been, right off the dirt path where he found Dean yesterday. A square was drawn out right on the state line – if he was planning to move, it would be _there_ , if he kept up the pattern.

This could be it – if he could discover the date of Crowley’s next delivery, he could either intercept Dean on the way into town or catch him in the offload, and maybe, _just_ maybe, take down the entire operation in the process. _That_ would get Naomi off his back, definitely. If only he could be so lucky.

The knock on the door had him straightening his back in one sharp motion, tucking the black pen behind his ear, eyes narrowed at just _who_ could be interrupting him. His time hadn’t run out, had it? He just _got_ there. On the other side after he undid the deadbolt, he found Bobby Singer glaring at him, sleepless and haggard as ever, hair slicked back and beard somewhat presentable, all five-foot-eleven of him tense with subdued anger, waiting for any sort of provocation. “What are your intentions with my boy?”

Oh good _Lord_. He was thirty-five – he didn't need _the talk_ at his age. Would the world ever give him a minute’s peace? “…Come in here. We’re not having this discussion within earshot of the other employees.”

“Son, we’ll talk where I say we’re gonna talk—.”

“Mr. Singer, _please_.” Castiel moved out of the doorway, urging the librarian inside the cramped room, not even bothering to hide the array of maps. With visible reluctance Bobby stepped inside, fingers tugging the straps of his suspenders.

“I’m only gonna ask this one more time, boy. _What_ are your intentions with Dean?”

Castiel closed the door behind them, rubbing his temples and fighting back another wave of pain; he should have just lied and gone home. Had he always been so _loud_? “You’re well aware of my intentions with him,” he sighed, flopping onto the couch and cradling his head in his hands. “Our relationship is nothing but professional.”

“That doesn’t explain what you two were up to _in my home_.” Bobby crossed his arms with a scowl, tapping a shoe on the gray-carpeted floor. “Now I _know_ you, Castiel, much as everyone else in this damn city knows you. And you and your little racket’ve been tryin’ to bring in my boy ‘s long as I can remember. But what you two’re doin’ on the side is anything _but_ , and now you’ve brought it under my roof.”

“That was never my inten—.”

“Let me _finish_.” Bobby held up a finger to him. “If you wanna bring him in for whatever you think he’s doin’, then by all means, do. But I don’t want either of you gettin’ involved, you understand me?”

Shaking his head, he lowered his eyes to the floor. “It’s not—It’s not like that,” he started, wringing his hands. “It’s just sex. It doesn't mean anything.”

“Now, I may not have the fancy college education _you_ have, but even _I_ know that ain’t true.” He caught Bobby’s gaze, shocked by the softness there in perpetually determined eyes. “You two’ve been dancin’ around this for years, and I know it’s _impossible_ to not start feelin’ _somethin_ ’ after a while. He thinks the _world_ of you. ‘N I don’t want you hurtin’ him. So,” he stepped closer, nudging the tips of his shoes with his own, “I want you to do your _job_ , and leave him alone. Lord knows he’s been through enough in his life, he doesn’t need anything else put on him.”

“You know I can’t promise you that.” As much as he didn't want to admit it, and probably to Bobby’s chagrin, Castiel cared for Dean, a little _too_ much. The line between duty and genuine _affection_ had been crossed long ago, tearing apart everything he stood for. He was the law, he brought people to justice. He _murdered_ in the name of the United States, all under orders. And he would have done anything to keep Dean out of it. They all knew where this road led.

“Well, you’re gonna have to promise _somethin_ ’. So if anything, do not let him _die_. Because I swear to _God_ if he gets so much as _shot_ on your watch—.”

“Robert, I swear to you,” he stood, facing the librarian, “I won’t let any harm come to him.”

“You better stand by your word, boy.” Bobby patted his shoulder, turning to shove his hands in his pockets. “Or so help me, I’ll knock you off myself.”

He left without a word, slamming the door behind him; Castiel groaned at the sound. He swore, the next person that walked through that door was about to get an earful. He needed a nap, or a drink. Several drinks. Whose great idea was it to ban liquor, anyway? So many things could be solved if he could just drink to his hearts content and pass out in an alley somewhere. At least he could _sleep_ that way.

Fate was deciding to play a cruel joke on him, and it was just barely ten in the morning. Castiel chose to ignore the footsteps stomping past his door as he returned to his task at the desk, pen in his hand, bleary eyes boring holes in the colored paper, circles and diamonds and oblong shapes mocking his suffering. The stomping continued, shuffling back in his direction, followed by a set of curses before he watched the door to the room open – _why didn’t I lock it_? – and a frantic man rush in, slamming it shut behind him, flipping the deadbolt.

 _Winchester_. _Dean_ was there, hand over his heart and breathing in quick gasps, panicked, oblivious to where he had ended up until what sounded to be three people ran past, all sound ceasing after a man’s voice shouted for the rest of his posse to head downstairs. “Sorry, man, I just gotta hang here for a— _Cas_?”

 _At last_ he noticed. Castiel placed his pen on the table, gawking that the green-eyed masterpiece he had grown to know was in the same _room_ as him for the second time in twenty-four hours, this time with decidedly more clothes on. Gray suit and a wool overcoat, hat tipped at an odd angle, face flushed – who was he running from? “Why are you here, Winchester?”

“Couple’a—I pissed some people off.” Dean backed away from the door, shrugging off his coat and suit jacket and tossing them onto the edge of the couch. “’M just gonna hide here until I’m sure they’re gone, that alright with you?”

“I—that’s—that’s fine.” He turned back to the maps while Dean occupied himself on the couch, ruffling sweat-soaked strands of auburn hair, whistling some tune he had never heard before. Probably some jazz hit from a club or something on the radio; his head rang with the sound. “If you’re going to stay here, could you _please_ be quiet?” He turned his back and resumed his search, pulling out an unmarked map of the northeast corridor of the state. “I’d like to finish this before—.”

“What you got there?” Dean hummed, nonchalant. Warm arms snuck around his waist from behind, a head perched atop Castiel’s shoulder. “Mm, you’re still lookin’ for it, ain’t you? Never gonna find it if ya don’t get out there.”

“I’ll find it my own way,” Castiel groused. “You could be a good boy and _tell_ me, though. Save me the trouble of having to have my superiors beat it out of you when I bring you in.”

“You wouldn't.” Dean nibbled at the lobe of his ear, smirking against his skin. “You like me too much, admit it. Couldn’t bear to see my hide behind bars before. Did you think about me in the Pen? Couldn’t touch me in there like you can here, could you?”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel pulled his arms away and spun around, backing himself into the desk. “Any other time, I’d be interested.”

“But now you’re not?” Dean crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Fuck and run, that’s all I am to you, ain’t it? Don’t know why I expected anything else outta you.” Castiel opened his mouth to speak; Dean’s voice rang out louder. “And where do you get off? Y’know, half of this is _your_ idea to begin with! The only time you’re even remotely _civil_ to me is when you’ve got your dick in me! I’m not some—some _toy_ , Cas. This isn’t some cat and mouse game, this is _life_!”

This wasn't happening – this wasn't what his life had come down to. “You think I didn’t factor your _feelings_ into this?” Castiel watched the anger burning behind emerald irises, teeth set on edge. “You think I don't _care_ what happens to you?”

“You’ve never _acted_ like you cared.” The second Dean stepped forward, Castiel pushed him back with a hand to the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the wall, his other pinning his wrists together at his front. “Cas, get _off_ me—.”

“You listen here, _Winchester_ ,” Castiel grated, teeth bared, knuckles brushing the bump of Dean’s adam’s apple, flexing as he swallowed. “I haven’t done what I did because I don’t _care_ about you. I haven’t lied to my superiors, I haven’t kept this quiet, I haven’t risked my _job_ every day for the past _five years_ because I _hated_ you. We’re on two different sides here, Dean. I’ve played the game like I’m supposed to, I’ve played by the rules. And if you don’t keep up your end of the bargain, then I’ll break our little deal and drag you into that station for the last _damn_ time.”

Dean watched him, breath coming in short pants through his nose. “Don’t you _dare_ lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Castiel released him with a halfhearted shove, turning his back on the man and dragging his feet across the room to the desk. “I would’ve thought _you_ , of all people, would understand.”

“Oh, I get you, Cas.” He heard the rustle of fabric as Dean straightened out his shirt, ignoring the faint tremble in his voice. “I get you _perfectly_. And if it’s gonna be like this, then I don’t _want_ it. I don’t wanna be—I don’t wanna be just a _job_ , to you. I thought we were—.”

“We _are_.” Castiel ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots enough to sting, to alleviate the pain. “We are, it’s just—.”

He couldn't exactly catch Dean’s expression or following statement, the world fading to some intermittent space between abysmally dark and blindingly white, the bulbs above him flickering in and out of sight. Dean was saying something to him, tapping his cheek, shaking him back into consciousness, enough for his vision to clear and the noise of words roaring back into his ears. “Cas, Cas, c’mon, ‘re you back?”

He blinked, uneasy. “…Did I pass out?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Dean helped him upright, a hand on his back. “Almost clocked yourself on the table, I got ya before you hit the deck.” Castiel took a moment to compose himself and steady his breathing before he caught Dean’s eye again, the concern there sending his stomach plummeting. “You alright?”

“Headache,” was all he could muster before Dean was helping him to his feet, hands on his shoulders. “I’m need to finish this, I need—.”

“No, man. I don’t care what you _need_ to do, I’m taking you home. You’re gonna make yourself _sick_.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling myself—.”

“Yeah, and we saw how that worked out, didn't we? C’mon,” he motioned Castiel towards the couch, urging him to sit. “I’ll pack these up n’ you just sit there and look pretty, alright?”

Awareness drifted then, the blackness of his palms doing wonders for the throbbing ache behind his eyes. Dean woke him some time after, redressed in his coat, offering the hat in his hand. “Wear this, keeps the light outta your eyes.”

“You’re being too nice,” Castiel mumbled.

“Yeah, well, sue me for _caring_ , copper.”

At his side, Dean maneuvered him through the endless shelves and rows of the library, rolls of papers tucked under his arm, looking all the bit paranoid, always looking over his shoulder or around corners. Thankfully, none of the library patrons paid much attention to him other than cursory glances, everyone too enrapt in whatever they were reading or searching for. Outside, the rain had turned to a steady downpour, streaming down the road and into the storm drains; flooding was immanent, the longer they stayed out. The front seat of Dean’s Chevrolet was where he found himself nodding off into sleep, his Packard left behind on the curb; he would have to pick it up later, he assumed, if Dean drove him back.

Majority of his life, Castiel lived on a schedule, knowing exactly what the time was, when he had to leave his home to arrive at his destination, when files were due – the loss of hours with no recollection of them was overwhelming. The space between getting in the car and waking up on a soft surface was filled with restful black and soft, unintelligible words, leaving him with a residual ache and wanting to continue sleeping if it weren’t for the breeze blowing through the window.

“Didn’t figure you’d be up so soon,” Dean’s voice sounded out from the door to his bedroom, arms folded across his chest, coat and jacket and even the _suspenders_ left somewhere in the house. He actually _did_ take him home. Brought him in and laid him out on the sheets of his bed and just let him _rest_. It wasn't like him. Were either of them dying? “Carried your ass in, you were out cold all the way up here. I’ve been tellin’ ya, you need to live closer to the city, not out here in Stone Mountain. Took forever to get here with the roads like they are.”

“I guess I should thank you.” Castiel leant up on one elbow and rubbed his eye, clouded watching Dean with the other. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Y’know, ‘f you keep sayin’ that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ I shouldn't.” Dean dropped his hands and walked to the bed, sitting at the edge facing the wall. “So that’s what you’ve been doing, mapping wherever I go? ‘S it really that hard to find?”

“Harder than you think.” He flopped back on the bed, ignoring Dean’s snickering. “There aren’t many roads, and where there are, they’re unpaved or completely washed out. And you’re _never_ near the road in the first place.” Closing his eyes, he curled his bare toes into the linens, grateful for the softness there. He would have to call Naomi to let her know what happened at some point. “You’ve given numerous agents poison ivy and sumac for their troubles.”

“What’d they expect, a giant welcome sign? Life ain’t that easy, sweetheart.” Castiel kicked at Dean’s back at the snide gleam in his eyes, narrowly missing when the man slipped away, only to have Dean crawl back on the bed and over his body, elbows framing his head. “What would you ever do without me?”

“Ideally? Preferably not have a stroke before my next birthday.” Dean’s lips on his neck had him taking pause, inwardly reveling in the feeling. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Startin’ to feel like I can’t do a lot of stuff around you.” Dean lifted his head, silent. “So, you _care_ about me.” No question, no chance for rebuttal.

“…Perhaps too much.” He turned his head into the sheets, ignoring the kisses to his cheek, collar, a mark to his neck. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.” A press to his lips, and he pulled back; Castiel touched a hand to his cheek, the expression on Dean’s face softening to worry, eyes downcast. “’M sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He cut off Dean’s reply with a hand over his mouth. “This was of no one’s fault other than my own. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have attacked you like that.”

Dean chuckled, low, dropping his head to Castiel’s shoulder with a smile on his lips and lowering himself fully, draping himself across Castiel, legs tangling, bodies shifting to find a comfortable balance. “Think you left a hell of a bruise on my spine.”

“I’m sure I’ve left worse.” Dean purred into his ear as Castiel stroked along his spine, his other hand carding through rain-cooled hair, teasing a strand behind his ear. “We can’t keep doing this, Dean.”

“What, sex or the you-on-my-ass thing? ‘Cause I gotta say, I’m startin’ to not mind either—Hey, _hey_ , no pinching!”

Castiel stroked over his ass in apology, his smirk turning somber. “We can’t keep doing either. It’s…entirely unprofessional. I’m risking everything to keep this up…” A pause; Dean leant up to watch him, jaw tight. “…But I can’t find it in myself to stay away from you.”

Somewhere, between the searing kiss Dean drew him into and the feeling of a hand tugging at his hair, he felt sincerity, the _admittance_ of feelings long since repressed, of words left unspoken to outsider’s ears. Neither could say it – neither would confess to anything that could endanger either of their lives. Dean was destined to fight until the end for his trade; Castiel was doomed to pursue him until either cracked from the pressure or their own mortality. Death was a welcome reprieve for what was waiting for them.

Sometime before the sun set beyond the horizon and the rain dissipated to a drizzle outside the open window, he awoke to the smell of burning cinders and an absence of warmth at his back. In his wastebasket were the smoldering remains of his maps, some still readable around the edges, most unrecognizable. One remained spread out on his desk, untouched, a note pinned to the top with the words ‘ _I’m sorry, let me go._ ’

He crumpled the note in his fist, gritting his teeth – he couldn’t. Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of research I'm putting into this fic is insane. The Carnegie Library in Atlanta actually existed up until it was demolished in 1977. Also, the Fourth Ward was known as the redlight district in town during this era. Currently, it's known as the Old Fourth Ward, and it's now a historic district.
> 
> In other news, the spring semester's started, but thankfully my schedule isn't gonna be as demanding as last semester, so I should be able to keep writing like I want. So here's to praying I can get these our faster. There's gonna be five to six chapters in total, so I won't keep you waiting long!


	3. In the Air

_Two Weeks Later  
ETA: Twelve hours until onload_

In the basement of a stone-walled Catholic church in the Fourth Ward was a wooden door, surrounded by boxes of hymnals and the choir’s robes for every Sunday service, and whatever other paraphernalia the congregation dragged in. Tables for revival services, extra Bibles, tablecloths, even old stained glass windows lined the walls, barely leaving any room for anyone to walk through. Discreet, unsuspecting – no one ventured into the dank space unless they had a specific task in mind.

Several establishments were set up across the town, at least three in each specific ward, some in the more rural parts of the suburbs, all underground. Some under piano shops, others under restaurants and hotels. But they were too easy of targets – churches were safer. The prohibition agents and regular police were too busy trying to shake down the local pet stores to notice the nefarious activities taking place behind a lone church door. With cars always parked out front and a constant stream of pedestrian traffic going into local businesses, no one suspected a thing.

They _should_ have. Out of all of Crowley’s suggested sites, Dean prided himself on scouting _this_ one, paying off the owner on a monthly basis so they could set up shop in the connecting basement, hidden beyond a door and an unlit hallway. Two passwords were required for entry – an elaborate series of knocks for the main door, and a spoken word that changed every two days, depending on Crowley’s particular taste at the time. Someone – probably Uriel, for all he knew – spread the word amongst his connections, and the crowd came in droves, patrons lining the underground bar and slot machines in the corners, none of them taking the time to consider the work that went into keeping the place running.

Better them to not know. It wasn't like _their_ lives were on the line every day; they were just customers, contributors to Crowley’s grand scheme, willing to blow their money however they saw fit. And as long as their country stayed in its assumed dry spell, his boss would rake in more cash than God and share next to none of it with the actual workhorse. Three hundred dollars was next to nothing to what Crowley was making; he took it as a small victory. Without him, he would have been stuck in Asheville with nothing to his name. He had a _life_ now, however hectic it was; he wouldn't go back to that.

John Winchester had him on a short leash the minute he was old enough to travel. It wasn't like his mother could have a say; the last time he visited her at Oakland was over a decade ago, the year before he was dragged into the Georgia and North Carolina wilderness for weeks on end, learning every trick of the trade while being forced to survive on his own while his own _father_ abandoned him to check the other stills within a fifteen mile radius. Sam was a good few years younger than him, forced to stay with Bobby during the intervals where they were both out of state – if he hadn’t have caught the train the day he turned eighteen, Dean knew he would have been dragged into the woods with him, throwing them both into a life neither wanted.

His first haul was the date of his eighteenth birthday, a full year after his training started, their original plan to make it through the Nantalaha Forest to Atlanta in four hours and offload the few-hundred jars in the back without stopping. The plan fell apart at the Georgia line in the form of a Chevy Touring Car and two agents looking to make a quick buck by bringing in a local celebrity. They neither got their target nor the haul, but they got his _son_ instead, shot in a hail of gunfire from both parties and thrown from the car window, bleeding and bruised from impact, watching his father drive off in a trail of dust.

Dean knew _why_ he did it – save the load at all costs and bring it into town, no matter if lives were lost in the process. But that didn't mean it was _right_. John could have stopped, got him back in the car and drove off, taken him to a hospital instead of leaving him to bleed out from the wound in his shoulder along a back road. At least his captors had sympathy, patching him up before taking him to the city jail – John never came to bail him out, leaving him in there for two weeks for being an accessory.

As far as learning experiences went, it was one he preferred not to remember. But he grew from it, learning what worked and what failed spectacularly in the process. How to make sure no one got sick from his product, how to sweet-talk to the authorities if they came sniffing around, how to lead the prohibition agents in circles with false leads. That was how he met Castiel, after all – two run-ins in the woods miles away from his still along with countless others in the city, and by some miracle, he only spent the total of six months behind bars on counts of attempted murder. They never kept him for long – Crowley always found a way to get him back on the job.

Crowley was more lenient than his other bosses had been since John passed in ’27. Some wanted more product for less pay, others barely paying him at all. But Crowley was a businessman, controlling almost all of Atlanta’s underground – he knew how to keep his suppliers happy and productive and kept the best and brightest under his wing, Dean especially. He had no intention of getting on his bad side, either – he still didn't know what _exactly_ happened to Gordon, and had no desire to find out.

To his dismay, Crowley wasn't anywhere in sight that night; normally, he took his position at the far end of the bar mingling with whatever women ventured in, all donning their best dresses and adventurous smiles. Even on the night before shipments were due, he was regularly chatty, especially with himself. Amongst the throng of patrons, he saw no one of familiarity except Cole in the corner and the brunette sitting next to him. The same woman from the hotel two weeks earlier, now in a red dress and a massive black fur shawl with her hair in a bob, a thin cigarette holder between the fingers of her raised hand and a shot glass in the other, half empty. “You’ve been watching me for the past five minutes,” she said to him, taking a drag and holding it out to him, blowing smoke in a neat stream from between her lips. “Something on your mind, Freckles?”

“Nothing more than usual.” He ignored her gesture, content to stare across the room at the bartender, wiping down the polished mahogany between patrons.

If she took sympathy on him, he didn't notice. “You catch a bad break, Doll?” She offered a black-gloved hand, red lips curled into a grin as he shook it. “Bela Talbot.” He gave a simple ‘Dean’ in reply, prompting her question, “Just ‘ _Dean_ ’? How mysterious.” Tapping her cigarette out in the ashtray between them, she motioned to the bartender. “I feel like I should buy you a drink.”

“Don’t bother.” Dean waved him off, the nameless man returning to his duties. “Can’t stand the stuff. Plus, Crowley runs a hard markup, ‘s not worth it.”

“Sounds like a man who knows his liquor.” What was she getting at? Not that being flirted with by patrons wasn't common, but this woman was different. She had a purpose hidden in her eyes, a curious glimmer there, trying to uncover his motives, intentions. He didn't like it. “You’re probably the only fella in here that’s not looking for a good time. What’s got you in a rut?”

“’S nothing to tell.” What was he supposed to say? And to a stranger, no less. _My life’s a train wreck, my boss hightailed it outta Dodge, ‘n the only guy I ever needed hasn’t spoken to me in days._ Their parting was by no means on good terms, but that didn't mean Castiel had to _ignore_ him. He knew the man’s regular hangouts, knew where he went to be alone, presumably to escape whatever his superior put him through. They met up outside Stone Mountain on rainy days or at the Ritz after a chase, or even at one of the universities if either felt brave enough to be seen together. They even happened upon each other on the streetcar, once.

But Castiel was nowhere to be found. It didn't matter; he was probably buried under paperwork, scheming with his cohorts on how they would catch him next time. Dean had his own priorities to worry about. Six AM, he was to arrive and meet up with Bobby and Benny and load whatever they had from the two stills in the area and hope to make it back into town before noon, untouched. Whether Crowley was present or not, he had to take it to lot behind the Brush Company and pray no one spotted him.

It was a routine run – why did it feel like the end of the world?

“Enlighten me then, if it doesn’t _matter_ so much.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Bela edge closer to him, their knees brushing. _She wants something._ “Is it something to do with tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” He wrenched back, hand on the bar; Bela was watching him, predatory, eyes narrowed in sadistic glee. “Wait, what do you—.”

“ _Dean_ ,” she hummed, fingering the rim of her glass. “I know your game, so let’s cut to the chase. I’m looking for your boss, the little ratfink that runs this joint. You haven’t _seen_ him anywhere, have you? I’ve got some people who’re in _dire_ need to speak with him.”

“Well, I got news for you, gal.” Dean backed off his barstool and grabbed his hat, tilting it off to the side of his head. “Even if I knew somethin’, I _sure_ as _hell_ wouldn't tell _you_. Who’re you workin’ for, ‘nyway? ‘Cause if you’re an Agent, you ain’t doin’ a very good job.”

She chuckled, propping one leg up over the other and placing the filter to her lips, blowing smoke in his direction. “Honey, I’m above your pay grade. Hell, I’m above your precious _Agency_ and everyone in it. So I’d suggest you fess up, because I _know_ you’re up to more than your preoccupation with that _blasted_ car of yours.”

“It’s none of your _damn_ business what I do in my spare time.” He turned his back to Bela, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “’N I suggest you back off, Doll. Wouldn't wanna be stickin’ your nose where it don’t need to be.”

“You flatter yourself, honey.” Bela took hold of his shirtsleeve at the cuff, scarlet lips pulled into a frown. “But I’d watch my back, if I were you. There’s a price on your pretty little head, it’d be a _shame_ for you to lose it.”

“That’s the thing about me, gal,” Dean turned to glance over his shoulder, tipping the front of his hat with a smirk, “there ain’t anyone in the world who can catch me.”

She barked a laugh, pointing her cigarette at him. “Watch yourself, Dean. I’m _sure_ your associate Benjamin wouldn't appreciate you not showing up tomorrow.”

 _What_? The hand to his shoulder kept him from turning to see the self-satisfied grin on her face, eyes alight. “What d’you know about tomorrow?”

“Oh, nothing.” The click of her heels was deafening in the packed room, no one the wiser of their conversation, more concerned with getting their drinks or gambling. “But I know if _you’re_ here, then trouble’s coming. We’re both looking for the same guy, and he’s blown town. So I’m gonna ask you again.” She spun him around, a finger to his lips. “Where is Fergus Crowley?”

“Baby,” he shook his head. “Baby, _baby_. Even if I knew, I _sure as hell_ wouldn’t tell you.”

“In time, darling.” Bela patted his cheek, simpering. “You’ll tell me all I need.”

“Fat chance, sweetheart. ‘N you tell _your_ boss they got another thing comin’, if they’re thinkin’ ‘bout tanglin’ with me.” He turned to make his leave through the hoard of patrons, disappearing beyond the door and halls, the humidity of the mid-afternoon air seeping through his clothing, sun still high in the sky. Twelve hours – eight before he needed to leave town at two in the morning, one for the entire onload process, and another four to get back to Atlanta before the feds or anyone else bothered to show up. He wouldn't have a repeat of last time, no, even with Bela’s vague threats.

Just who _was_ she? Out of all the federal agents and prohibition officers he knew, her name had never come up on the list. Her face was only distantly familiar from stolen glances in the recent past, only remembered by the smell of her perfume and the rasp of her voice, abused by too many cigarettes and more than enough liquor. A dame in disguise, set to turn his world upside down. If he had the chance to meet her again, it would be too soon.

Bobby’s Packard wasn't in the driveway when he returned home twenty minutes later, the spare house key tucked beneath a granite rock in the wilting garden in front of the porch. He really needed to water it, or at least get one of the neighbors to take care of it when he wasn't home; the flowers were probably mocking him.

It had been stupid going to the bar in the first place, thinking he would find Crowley there. They didn't have enough time to make their quota; they still had another pass to go through the stills before they could even _begin_ to deem it drinkable. But Crowley was _insistent_ , even before he decided to disappear. The whole situation was off – first his boss vanished off the face of the earth, then some previously nameless woman showing up at his establishment, asking where he went? All of it had an air of unease, hair prickling at the thought of what it could exactly mean.

Nine o’clock found him sitting in front of the corded Silver Swan in just his underwear, letting the breeze of the fan cool his skin. Even with the sun heading below the horizon, the heat persisted on, permeating everything it touched. He should have been born up north, he figured, head resting on the foot of his mattress. Even if he were forced to work in the factories, it would be away from the humidity. Colder climates suited him better, not places he could stroke out just by stepping outside for five minutes.

The sound of the front door opening and clicking shut didn't catch his attention at first; the click of loafers on the hardwood outside his bedroom door a minute later drew him from his stupor. A man was standing in his doorway, blue tie askew, suit jacket and dress shirt slung over his shoulder, leaving him in only an A-shirt and slacks. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, Cas,” Dean commented, blank, glancing back at the fan and his bare toes. “Lookin’ to get lucky? ‘Cause you’re shit outta luck if you are.”

“Dean.” There was a sense of meaning in that one word; the tone left him sighing and scooting over, letting Castiel toss his clothing onto the bed and sit beside him, toeing off his shoes and wiggling his toes in his socks. From one hand he handed off a red-labeled bottle, already uncapped and still cool to the touch. They sat in companionable silence, alternating between drinking and resting their heads on the edge of the mattress, enjoying the silence and the occasional whisper of the wind rustling through the blinds. “Don’t go through with tomorrow.”

“Kinda too late to give me the riot act,” Dean sighed with his head on Castiel’s shoulder, half-empty Coke at his hip. “You should know my schedule already, ‘s how you’ve been trackin’ me, ain’t it? You’ll probably lead the cavalry, like always.”

“You know it won’t be like that.” Castiel patted his bare knee, fingers pressing in tight. “It’s… Something’s going to happen tomorrow. Something I can’t control. But you have to know, I want no part of it.”

Dean huffed a laugh against him, pushing up into Castiel’s gentle touch, thumb rubbing small circles in languid patterns. “Y’never do. Can see it in your eyes, _see_ how much you don’t like shootin’ at me.”

“I can’t tell if you mean that or not.” Dean closed his eyes to the sound of Castiel setting his drink to the side, head resting atop his own. “You have to know. You were never just a job to me, Dean. You’re—If we were in another time and place, maybe we could have a different story. An _easier_ one, where we didn't have to chase each other around the state.”

“Seein’ as I don’t think we’re gonna be livin’ through anymore lifetimes, looks like we don’t have a choice.” Castiel was watching him, he knew. “We could run away. You quit the Agency ‘n I’ll hang up my coat, we’ll go out west. Get a house in Glendale, maybe write a couple books. Be movie stars, socialites. Live the dream. You wanna?”

“More than anything,” Castiel sighed. “You know we… can’t, though. This isn’t how it ends.”

“Yeah. One’a us is gonna get a bullet in the head, ‘n it’ll probably be me, from the looks of it.” Castiel made a move to pull away, Dean seizing his wrist in retaliation. “Hey, Cas…” The words were on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill, his mouth forming soundless syllables. When had it become so hard to talk? “When was the—When… We fuck, right?”

It was neutral ground; at least they could start there. “Yes, but—I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“When—have we ever, _y’know_?”

Realization dawned on Castiel in the dark light of the room, the sun vacant from view behind the curtains. “You’re asking if we’ve made love.” With a nod, Dean turned back to the fan, shame burning on his cheeks. “I’ve—I’m not sure.” Castiel lowered his head. “We’ve never really had time, now that I recall.”

“Then let’s make time.” Taking his hand, Dean made his way to his feet, pulling Castiel with him. “If one’a us is gonna die tomorrow, then let’s do something to remember each other by, right?”

Castiel watched him, cautious. “What makes you so sure you’ll die tomorrow?”

Dean looked to the floor, seeking the answers he knew weren’t there. “’Cause I know how this is gonna work. You wouldn’t’ve ignored me for two weeks if you didn’t have somethin’ planned.”

“I’ve been trying to _protect_ you.” He leant into Castiel’s hand caressing his face, thumb skirting his cheekbone. “I’ve been…lying to my superiors, to get them off your trail. I tried, Dean, I _swear_ to you. I’ve tried to keep you safe, but they’re…obstinate. I have orders—.”

“Y’always got orders.” He felt Castiel’s skin tense as he pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, his own hand clutching to his wrist tight, unwilling to let go, ever. “’N you’re never gonna break ‘em, are ya?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Don’t expect you to.” Before he could kiss his palm again, Castiel moved to cup Dean’s neck, pulling him in tight, close, the warmth of his skin bleeding into his own as he drew him into a kiss, softer than he expected, a brief press and tug of lips before they pulled away, a smile flitting over Dean’s face. “Take me to bed, Cas.”

Never once had he seen Castiel hesitate more than he did then, body wired against him, brow furrowed in worry. “You’re—are you sure?”

He nodded, resolute – if there was anything he was sure of, it was this.

-+-+-+-+-+-

Castiel barely made it through the front door of the Agency’s precinct before someone – _Gabriel_ , he noticed – grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him through the white-tiled lobby with a scowl on his face. “Naomi’s been looking for you for _hours_ ,” he hissed, spiteful. “I was about to have to alert the police, and you _know_ how they don’t like to be disturbed past midnight. The fuck were you even _doing_?”

He was still busy asking _himself_ that question. Two hours alone with Dean in the quiet of the man’s home left him sated and boneless, asleep on a well-worn mattress, until he was shuffled away by a body worming out of his grasp and gathering his things. He had feigned sleep, pretending it didn't hurt as much as it did to see him leave, to _know_ nothing had changed between them. And never would. Dean left him alone and cold in an unfamiliar house, Chevrolet gone from the driveway by the time he made his way to his Packard and drove. He should have just gone home, slept off the high and hoped for the best in the morning, when he wasn't forced against his will to take up his weapon and bust into a warehouse, unbeknownst to its occupants.

Instead, he found himself being dragged through rooms lined with empty desks and flickering overhead lights, too bright to his eyes. “I was sleeping,” he fibbed, words still slurred half an hour later.

“Yeah, tell that to the mark on your neck. I _swear,_ Cassie,” Gabriel stopped and whipped him around, a finger to his shoulder joint, “you’re in over your head. Naomi wants your ass on a platter and you’re out with your _runner_ boy toy! What are you even _thinking_?”

 _I’m in love with him_. “You’re making assumptions that you have no business addressing.” Gabriel’s stare only hardened, finger pressing in harder, threatening to bruise. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been _looking_ for you. Naomi’s about to have an aneurism.” Again Gabriel pulled him along, stopping in front of a door marked ‘Interrogation.’ “I can’t save you, brother. You’re in this on your own.”

 _What_?

Beyond the black-painted door waited both Naomi and Michael and an unnamed brunette, the latter standing in the far corner and his boss seated in a chair, all sets of eyes glaring in his direction. Gabriel shoved him forward and around the metal table, forcing him into the empty chair and promptly leaving the room, door slamming shut behind him.

He knew what this was, what this meant – he just never expected it to happen to _him_. Michael worked over all of the criminals he had arrested in the past, most of them not lasting an hour, spilling whatever secrets they knew for fear of their lives. Most of them were in the penitentiary or shipped out to God knew where in the country; others went inexplicably ‘missing’ days after their interrogation, posters still hung up around town and on the bulletins in the police precincts with the slightest hope that they would be found and returned to their families or behind bars. He knew where they went, though – he knew where Michael kept his demons, along with the rest of the Agency.

That night, they were determined to find out his. “I’m going to get to the point here, Castiel,” Naomi started, both elbows on the table. He felt Michael’s eyes on him, burning holes into his neck; the nameless woman was leering at him, arms crossed and a grin on her red-painted lips. “Our _lovely_ Federal Agent, Bela Talbot, has reason to suspect you’re working with Crowley’s gang.”

“I’m— _what_?” Castiel turned to the woman, watching her shrug. “You— _All_ of you think I’m working with the mob?”

“How do we know you’re not?” Michael growled, eyes narrowed. “According to your timesheet, you’ve been missing work the last month, and multiple days over the last two weeks, you’ve been spotted at various locations across the city. Care to explain?”

“I don’t have anything to explain to you.” To his front, Naomi was watching him, attention rapt, tapping her nails on the metal tabletop. By the standards of the Agency, Castiel was a _horrible_ liar; by sheer miracles he had gotten himself out of trouble before, mostly earning quirked eyebrows and exasperated sighs for his troubles. This was different, though; this meeting would most likely determine his future working there, and maybe where Michael buried him if he got too deep. Steeling his resolve, he continued, “If you _must_ know, I’ve been researching. You know, for the _case_ you put me on? My maps were inexplicably lost and I’ve had to retrace my steps for the past five _years_.”

It was a good enough reason – they had no reason to disbelieve him. Still, Naomi was skeptical, leaning back in her chair. “That doesn't explain why you were located at various houses throughout the city in the last few months. You’re going to have to do better than that, Castiel.”

“Why do you have people _spying_ on me?” The bang of his fist on the table had Bela jumping, a heel clicking on the concrete floor. “What have I _ever_ done in this Agency to warrant being _looked after_?”

“You haven’t been the most trustworthy of our Agents, Castiel.” Michael pulled a manila folder from behind his back and placed it before him, opening to a selection of photographs with various dates in the upper left-hand corners, some recent, some from years past. All with one element in common – the man in the cashmere coat and black suspenders at his side, arm over his shoulder, around his waist, elbow hooked within his. _Dean_. “It seems you’ve been spending time with an unidentified man. Normally we wouldn't _care_ who you prowl around town with, but seeing as he bears a remarkable resemblance to—,” a few flips of paper revealed a worn photograph of an auburn-haired man, maybe a few years old at best, “—this man, we’ve been forced to take notice. Now tell me,” Michael lowered his face to mere inches from his own, lips close to his ear, twisted into a smirk. “How well do you know Dean Winchester?”

 _More than you’ll ever know_. All three waited for an answer, for _anything_ he might be willing to tell them. His mouth refused to betray an answer. “Beyond the case? I don’t know him.”

Michael wasn’t buying it; with calloused fingers he tugged Castiel’s head back by his hair, forcing him to stare between him and the ceiling. “You’re a _liar_ , Castiel. You’re a liar and a _damn_ fool. You should be _thanking_ me for hiring you in the first place, you know. You were _nothing_ without me or _any_ of your cohorts here, and yet you _still_ act like you can get away with this?” He slapped the stack of papers; neither Naomi nor Bela made a move to stop him from tightening his grip and shoving his head onto the desk, pinning him there. “I’ll ask again. How well do you know Dean Winchester?”

“I don’t know him,” Castiel spat.

“See, this is what you’re not _getting_. We _know_ where he is, and we know what’s going down tomorrow. We just need to know when and where.” Another shove; Castiel groaned under the strain. Even attempting to push up and away ended in failure, all of Michael’s weight pressed into his back and neck. “So, either you tell us, or I’ll drag him in myself and make you _watch_ as he rats out you, and his boss, and his entire organization! Are we clear?”

“…No.”

“’No,’ what?” He swore he felt his neck crack with the additional pressure from Michael’s elbow. “’No’ you won’t tell me, or ‘no’ you won’t rat out your _friend_? That’s what he is, isn’t he? That’s you in the photos, isn’t it? You, all chummy with your pal? _Answer me_!”

Naomi’s attempt to interject – “Michael, that’s too much.” – was cut short by Michael slamming Castiel’s head into the table again, Castiel protesting loud enough to catch all their attentions. “I won’t tell you.”

“Oh, you’ll tell me.” Michael pulled him upright and shoved him back in his chair, a hand to his throat. “All you have to do is spill the details, and I won’t put lead in your kneecap. Capisce?”

 _No._ No matter how much Michael or anyone in the room wanted him to, he wouldn't, even if it meant his life. “Might as well put it in my brain.”

There were three things he would never get used to in life – having surprise parties thrown for him at the precinct on his birthday, Dean’s off-color jokes when they were in bed together, and looking down the barrel of a gun. _That_ was enough to send Naomi into action. Not the fact that _he_ was the one with the gun in his face, nor it was Michael behind the trigger – no, it was because a live weapon was within five feet of her and had the off chance of going off and bloodying her perfectly clean floors. “Michael, put it _down_. Do you know how much it’ll cost to get _rid_ of him if you _shoot_ him? We have to bleach the floors and alert his _family_ —.”

Michael wasn’t listening. “If he doesn’t say anything in the next _five seconds_ —.”

“Put the gun _down_ , Michael.”

“ _Tell me_ , you fucking—.”

“ _Michael_!”

“Fine!” Castiel slammed his palm flat on the table, blue eyes flicking between both his boss and his superior, the former more frazzled than the latter. Bela left the room to leave them to their business. Michael wasn’t relenting, pistol pressed firm to his forehead and finger on the trigger, _waiting_ for him to slip up, for an excuse to put a bullet in him and let it rattle around until he was a lump in his chair. He couldn't deny the shiver that ran through him at the thought, the very _idea_ that Gabriel would be the one to see his brother wheeled out to the coroner’s office, to know his death did nothing to prevent Dean’s inevitable demise.

He needed to buy time. “I’ll tell you,” he growled at Michael, swallowing thick. “I’ll tell you, if you put your gun away.”

“See, I knew you’d come around.” Still, Michael never retracted his weapon, merely taking his finger off the trigger. “Then again, I don’t trust you enough to not _lie_ to me. So be _smart_.”

Hands on the chair arms, he looked to Naomi. “They’ll—Crowley’s offloading at the Brush Company at ten, they’ll transport to the Catholic church around the corner after. It’s too soon between hauls for them to have anything substantial, but it’s enough to arrest them.”

At the word ‘arrest,’ he caught Michael smirking. “And how do you know this?” Naomi asked him, curious, pink lips pursed.

“I’ve been watching the church for the last week. Too much foot traffic to be anything normal, and there’s too many cars parked in the residential area two blocks over. There’s talk about movements, they run on a schedule.” Castiel lowered his head.

“How many cars?” Michael questioned.

“Three.”

“And how can we be sure you’re not lying?” Cold steel pressed to his temple again, trailing down to his cheek, taunting his lips.

Castiel met his narrowed eyes, tightening his jaw. “Because I wouldn’t do that.” _Not for him_.

“Well, you’re in luck, Castiel.” Naomi pushed back in her chair and stood, smoothing down the wrinkles of her jacket. “Your account matches up _exactly_ to Miss Talbot’s. You lucked out this time.”

“Wait, what?” Neither paid attention to him, Michael busy shoving his pistol back in his holster, Naomi gathering up the scattered papers. “What did—What did she _say_?”

Naomi clapped the stack together and tucked the file under her arm. “You corroborated her story, and you saved us from bringing innocent civilians into the matter. You should be proud, you just helped bring down one of the largest syndicates in the country!”

They left him alone in the interrogation room, overhead lamps flickering in time with his labored breathing, hands shaking in his lap with only one thought on his mind – _Save Dean Winchester._

-+-+-+-+-+-

“You’re lookin’ a bit haggard, brother,” a voice said at his side, a rough hand clasping his shoulder. “Y’sure you’re a’ight?”

In the background, he could hear Bobby yelling out orders to two other men, their feet crunching in the layers of dead pine straw and refuse. The first of three cars sat loaded at the end of their clearing, idling with no driver; the other two were waiting with trunks open, Bobby helping Cole place crates in the back of the Chevy, suspension straining from the weight. Their getaway vehicle was Benny’s black Pontiac Six at the back of their pack; in the event they were spotted, both he and Bobby could escape with their headlights off and their men take the fall. Benny could outrun almost anyone on his best day in the Chevy, whenever he was allowed to drive it. _No one_ touched Baby.

None of the cars or the fact another few hundred dollars was on the line were enough to bring him to the present, not even Benny’s hand on him, the weight of it normally dragging him back to his senses. Now, he could barely take his eyes off his shoes. “’M fine,” Dean mumbled, shoving a hand through greased hair. “Look, can we just get this over with? My back’s actin’ up again ‘n I just wanna get outta here.”

“Whoa, _whoa_ , easy.” Benny stopped him from walking away with a hand to his forearm, jerking him back a step.  “What’s got you in a rush? Y’normally ain’t in such a hurry, you got a date back home?”

“What? _No_ , no.” Dean shrugged him off. “Shouldn’t you be fillin’ the jugs?”

“Y’ain’t gonna get rid o’ me that easy. We got ‘em done while you were standin’ watch. There’s about… three crates left.” His eyes softened in concern. “You _know_ you can talk to me, right?”

“I _know_ , man, I know.” He took a moment to look around, determining whether or not someone was in earshot before he continued. “Look, you ever feel like bad shit’s about to go down? I didn’t wanna get outta bed earlier cause I just _felt_ it. ‘S like I got hit by somethin’, some voice tellin’ me not to _leave_. And now that I’m here…” He paused to wrap his arms around himself, skin crawling. “’S just weird, man.”

Benny slouched off to the side, brow furrowed. “This normally happen?”

“Not before a _haul_ anyway. Think I’m just gettin’ ahead of myself.” Another shiver; he turned to his Chevy, watching Bobby give him the thumbs up. “A’ight, you ready for this one?”

“You kno—.”

“ _Hands in the air, freeze_!”

A gunshot rang out before any of them could get their footing, a pine splintering within inches of Dean’s head. Someone ratted them out – someone _knew_ where they were. “Shit, _shit_ , we’ve been _made_ —.”

Benny was pushing him out of the way and towards the Pontiac by the time another shot rang out, narrowly whizzing past his shoulder and lodging in another tree. Mass panic – Bobby had the doors to the Six open and waiting, readying the Thompson in his lap and rolling the window down. “You sure your agent buddy ain’t got nothin’ to do with this?” Bobby shouted at him over the shouting of men approaching from nowhere and the simultaneous roar of three engines starting up.

They were leading the pack out of the woods before the Agents could get back to their cars. “Pretty _damn_ sure he don’t,” Dean snapped back, hands on the wheel. At least the sun had risen to somewhat above the horizon before the Feds decided to make their grand entrance. He could easily outrun them if they stayed in the shadows and kept them on the dirt roads; their cars were built for it, the suspensions modified to hold almost twice the factory weight with engines tweaked to keep them ahead of the game, headlights shut off to obscure them in the dark. But the Feds were getting smart – they could actually keep _up_ with them for miles.

On the _pavement_ , at least. The forests of the Appalachians were Dean’s backyard. “Think you can take the lead car out?” Dean asked. “Or d’we need everyone to get ahead of us?”

Bobby watched out the rearview, humming under his breath. “They got five cars. Let Benny ‘n Cole pass ya’.”

“Are you _crazy_?” Bobby was already waving them around, both the Chevy and Packard rounding them before the first of the Agent’s entourage made the turn. “We can’t go up against five cars, we can barely take two on a good day! Are you tryin’ to get us  killed?!”

“I’m tryin’ to _save_ your damn ass, boy!” A shot pinged off their bumper, another shattering the back windshield at the corner. “You remember that road we found last week?”

“What, the one by the fuckin’ _cliff_?” He shot Bobby a glare, eyebrows raised. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

“Does it l _ook_ like I’m kiddin’ you, boy?” Bobby was scowling, finger on the trigger of his rifle – he never _did_ look like he was joking about anything. “Those two up there can handle their own, we just gotta get _you_ outta here.”

“I’d rather be up there with them than have to try ‘n not drive off a damn _mountain_!” He couldn't fight the thought, though – it was their only way out, whether it meant throwing the car over the embankment and down a rock face or not. He had come across the road purely by accident, probably one of the old settler trails that hadn’t been used in well over a century, still flat enough to be remotely drivable. Castiel wouldn't have been able to find it if he _tried_. The maps at the Carnegie only went back so far, and unless someone was specifically looking to bury a body or make an escape, it was entirely unnoticeable to untrained eyes.

He knew, though – now, he knew.

“You’re gonna have to do _somethin’_ , ‘cause we ain’t got a lotta time left.” Whatever else he said was drowned out in a hail of bullets, Bobby managing to blow the tire of the lead car within his first ten shots, sending a Cadillac off into a well-covered ditch. The turnoff was coming up, buried somewhere in the cloud of dust his Chevy was kicking up ahead. “ _Dean_ , now or never!”

“Y’know what, fine!” Thankfully, Bobby had the mind to pull himself back inside before Dean made the sharp left turn, disappearing beyond the tree line and rattling the suspension on downed vines and branches until they were on flatter land, the grassy road giving them barely enough room to travel without losing a tire. The shouts from agents and roar of multiple engines ceased, whips of dirty wind passing by on the road just a few hundred feet from them. Looking over the shoulder rest, he shut off the engine, letting the quiet around them resume. “Y’think we lost ‘em?”

Bobby slid out and around the Pontiac to stand at the back bumper, rifle raised in the air, finger pressed precariously to the trigger in the event someone rounded the corner and resumed the chase. What was he supposed to do if that happened, though? Leave Bobby for the Feds to take him in and interrogate him for all he was worth? Unless he crawled through the back window, there would have been no way to get him back inside before Dean sped off. His safety was top priority, apparently – he didn't understand it.

Thankfully, the chase had finished on their end. Bobby patted the rear bumper and walked to Dean’s side, Thompson slung over his shoulder, leaning against the window. Dean carded his fingers through his hair, still visibly shaking. “Think Benny kicked up enough dust for us to lose ‘em,” Bobby sighed, pulling from his pocket a pack of Luckies and lighting one. “You need one?”

“’Mma need the whole pack at this rate.” With nerve-wracked hands he took the extra cigarette he offered, lighting it with a match and drawing in smoke. “Did’ya happen to see who was drivin’ any of the cars?”

“If you’re askin’ if I saw the Novaks, no.” Thank _God_. “But that don’t mean they’re not out there.”

He let his head drop back against the seat, blowing smoke into the interior of the car. Through the pines, the sun was beginning to show its full display, the heat of the day sinking in through his clothes. They had another four hours to go, and longer to catch up with Benny and Cole, as long as they weren’t pulled over for any infractions. They had this one in the bag. As long as no one screwed up, they could offload without an issue, even if Crowley wasn’t there.

“So, you thinkin’ that Novak boy sold you out?”

“That what you’re thinkin’?” he growled. “You're thinkin’ just ‘cause you don’t like him, he’s gonna up and rat us out?” Turning his head, he watched the reds of the sky turn to golds, to blues. _He wouldn’t. Cas wouldn’t…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm really, _really_ sorry this took forever to get up, but I finally finished it today, so yay! Just as an FYI, there's gonna be at least two chapters left, plus an epilogue. I have all the ideas, I just need to get 'em down. This is why I normally don't post WIP's while they're being written, I'm a notoriously slow writer when I'm not inspired.
> 
> I research a _lot_ for this fic, and I'm hoping it shows. There's actually no catholic church by the Brush Company (now the Brushwork Lofts) though, so that's all fictional. (Ebenezer is right around the corner, but I don't think they'd appreciate a speakeasy being in their basement.) 
> 
> Also, great thanks to the ECKC for beta'ing/keeping me working and horrorfemme for the super special artwork! You rock!


	4. Lullaby

He should have suspected it, or at least followed his gut. Driving along the highway with no one tailing him, _and_ being able to catch up to Benny and Cole without incident? If it were any other day, he would have figured it to be normal, or he was _extremely_ lucky. Instead, he pulled into the warehouse district of the Fourth Ward with the haul in tow, six of Crowley’s men waiting for them in the loading bay of the Brush Company like they did every other week, sans his boss. “See?” Benny told him once they were parked, clapping his shoulder. “You got yourself worried for nothin’. Didn’t even see those officers you were talkin’ about comin’ after us after we got on the main road.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I’m worried about,” Dean retorted, shaking his head.

They treated it like any other offload – Bobby shouting orders to Cole and Benny and the other men he never cared to learn the name of, a group of three carrying crates upon crates of jars and jugs towards one of the open bay doors and handing them off the other three, stacking them for transport in the cover of night when the cops weren’t on the lookout for anything suspicious going in and out of a church in the daylight. Activity had died down in the last week in the ward; he didn't like it.

He didn't like _any_ of it.

“The one thing I wanna know is,” he started, scowling with Bobby at his side, both leaning against the loading bay wall, “where the _fuck_ Crowley hightailed it off to. It ain’t _like_ him.”

“What, like it ain’t like him to be a slime ball?” Bobby scoffed around another cigarette. “I coulda told you that _years_ ago. He ain’t nothin’ but trouble, just like the rest’a the guys you’ve been working for.”

“ _We’ve_ , Bobby. You’ve been doin’ this just as long as dad did.” He kicked a loose chunk of concrete free, skittering across the lot. “You ever thought about quittin’? Gettin’ outta Crowley’s shadow ‘n movin’ outta here, save our hides?”

“Now you and I both know that ain’t possible, son.” With the last of his cigarette gone, Bobby flicked the butt on the ground and stomped it out. “When you got us involved with him, you pulled us into the _mob_. What made you think that was such a _great_ idea?”

“Hey, we both need to _live_ , alright? Times _suck_ right now, if you ain’t heard. …And as much as I hate runnin’, we’re makin’ a _living_. We got a roof over our heads and food on the table! I’m not—I’m not goin’ back on the street.”

Bobby was watching him, he knew; he could recognize that gaze anywhere, the perpetual concern for his wellbeing, the need to keep him out of harm’s way buried deep in those eyes. “This ain’t about the run, is it?” Eyes to the surrounding fence, Dean shook his head. “…This is about that _boy_.”

“I wish you’d stop sayin’ that shit. You know him almost as _well_ as I do, and he’s been goin’ to that library long before we ever got… _involved_.” He paused, drumming his fingers against his ribs. “He’s just… got me thinkin’. About where I wanna go, what I wanna _do_ with my life. …I’m tired of bustin’ my ass and breakin’ my neck tryin’ to _please_ the Boss so he doesn’t send his goons to bump me off in the middle of the night! Do you—you know what that feels like?”

“And you think I haven’t been there right along with you?” Bobby turned to face him, brow pinched. “You think that I took you in for my health? Boy, you’re dumber ‘n you look if you think I don't live _every day_ wonderin’ if you, or me, or _any_ of us are gonna make it through the night. We’re _all_ riskin’ our lives to do this, and we’re _all_ in this with you, whether you like it or not.” He patted Dean’s cheek, palm open; unconsciously he fell into the touch. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You think anyone’d listen?” Dean huffed. “Everyone else is worried about whatever they get paid. No one ‘cept Cole ‘n Benny have a family, they don’t have anything on the line. ‘N me?” He shook his head, turning to face the parked cars. “I don’t know what I got anymore.”

“You got me.” He couldn't bear to see the disappointment on Bobby’s face, couldn't bring himself to turn and accept it as fact. Because Bobby had always been there, but whether out of necessity or desire, he didn't know. Never bothered to wonder. “’N you got your brother and Castiel too, if you’re so inclined to add him in, too.”

But for how long? How long could he keep up his job, knowing he could leave one morning and come home in a body bag the next? It wasn't fun anymore, not that it ever was in the first place – it was an obligation, a contracted agreement to a man more invested in his millions than the lives of the workers groveling at his feet. “I didn't deserve this,” Dean confided, head bowed. Bobby rested a hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t deserve what dad put on me, what any of the others put me through to get me where I am. I coulda been _normal_ , y’know? Hell, I coulda gone with Sammy, found somethin’ to do out there, but no. I’m stuck doin’ grunt work for someone who just fucked off to _God_ knows where! ‘N I’m scared, Bobby. I’m _terrified_ that this is it. That this is gonna be the last day I’m gonna be standin’ here—.”

The remainder of his retort was cut off by Bobby wheeling him around and forcing him into a tight embrace, arms around his neck, Dean’s face tucked against his shoulder. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” He couldn't bring himself to laugh, emotions too raw to let him do anything but close his eyes and revel in the feeling of a hand clapping his back. “You’re always worryin’ about nothin’. Look, I know we normally go home after we get back, but I volunteered to help bring in the haul tonight, so I’m gonna hang out with the boys. And you’re coming with—and no buts, boy. Get your ass in there.”

It wasn't like he could refuse with Bobby dragging him up the short staircase and into the warehouse, dragging the door down behind them. Inside, Benny and Uriel were busy setting up an oval-shaped table under a spotlight, Cole arranging chairs from wherever he could scrounge them up, others seated on crates passing around spare mason jars, probably having deducted them from the overall quota. Crowley never noticed, or at least never bothered to mention it if he did. As long as he got his product at the specified numbers, he didn't care about quality or whether they were reaping the benefits. None of them were dropping dead from alcohol poisoning; at least that was a good sign.

“Name of the game,” Uriel started, once five people had amassed at the oak paneled table, shuffling a worn deck of Bee playing cards between his hands, “is Texas hold ‘em. Each player bets this week’s salary.” He dealt out three hundred dollars worth of clay chips to each player, painted in red for one dollar, white for five and blue for ten. “Rules are simple. Play until you’re out.”

So _that_ was why half of the men went home broke each week – someone was raking in majority of the money on the table. Judging by Bobby’s income each haul, he was probably breaking even each time. Cole won the first hand dealt with three nines, both Bobby and Dean folding and Benny and another man losing ten dollars to Cole’s pot. “He won’t last long,” Bobby said close to his ear, tapping a red chip on the table between his fingers. “Boy starts out strong, but Benny’ll get ‘im in the next few hands.”

That was probably the reason why Benny had more money than any of them, too. Dean won the following hand, a whopping fourty dollars, with a straight flush, earning simultaneous groans from every man at the table, Uriel sneering in his direction from the dealer’s chair. “Watch your luck, Winchester,” he remarked, gathering up the discarded hands and the remainder of the round, stacking them into a pile at his elbow. “Don’t get cocky.”

The game wasn't supposed to take place of the itch under his skin, the dread he felt in his bones. Still, he found it doing just that, shifting his thoughts to the task at hand and the eight of spades and ace of clubs in his hand. Everyone cast in their initial bet before Uriel discarded the top card and doled out the flop; an ace of spades, an eight of clubs, and—.

Somewhere in the back, a jar crashed to the floor and the warehouse door slung open, a group of at least ten men in black suits and fedoras bursting through with automatic rifles and handguns raised in their directions, the shouting for them to ‘get back against the wall’ overshadowing any of his thoughts. There was a resounding ‘I told you so’ on the tip of his tongue; Bobby cut it off by throwing him out of his chair and shoving him towards the wall, lips moving in the shape of words. He couldn't hear them, more concentrated on the people over his shoulder and that familiar mop of dark hair at the back of the group, blue eyes pleading for any sort of out.

_…Cas sold me out._

“Face the wall, hands behind your backs!” someone shouted, vehement. What else was he supposed to do? If he fought back or pulled the gun in his holster, they would fire and take them all out without hesitation. A man with a pistol walked down the line, patting them down for weapons and tossing the ones he found on the floor towards the armed officers. “ _No one_ make a move, you’re all under arrest for possession of illegal liquor.” He called out for several of the men to lower their weapons and smash the inventory, crate upon crate being toppled at the order, week’s worth of alcohol flowing beneath their feet.

No one made a sound on fear of their lives. Bobby was the most visibly shaken, eyes darting back and forth between him and Benny. Down the row, Cole looked the most antsy, grinding the toe of his shoe into the concrete of the warehouse floor, fingers flexing at his back. “Don't,” Dean mouthed at him, Cole taking no consideration of his words. “Cole, _don’t_ —.”

Cole was never one to listen. In one swift move, Dean watched him duck to draw his gun from his ankle holster, the remainder of his men rushing to stop him before he got off a shot. It failed – all of it backfired, majority of the unoccupied officers taking their long-awaited opportunity to empty their rifles into a group of unwilling civilians, Cole and two other men dropping in a fine red mist to a heap on the floor. Benny and Bobby both rushed at Dean, shoving him towards one of the back doors, all attempting to ignore the shouts and screams from the crowd. Red soaked the hem of his gray pants, a streak forming at his shoulder, unnoticed. Bobby was panting at his back, Benny pushing them along, out of the way, one officer on their tail.

“Get him to the car,” he heard Benny shout, ringing in his ears. The gunfire had lessened to an occasional pop and a groan; their footsteps echoed on the walls, grating, driving his heart rate wild. _I was right_ , he berated himself. _I should’ve stayed home, I should’ve—_. “Dean, get him to the car, he’s been _shot_!”

_Shot_. That one word stopped him feet from the exit, the weight of Bobby’s hand on his shoulder dragging him to his knees. And Benny was _right_ ; a bright spot of blood darkened the stark white of his shirt over his heart, soaking a large portion of the fabric and growing by the second. “I’m fine,” he groused, shoving Dean away. “You go on, get outta here—.”

“You think I’m stupid?” He pulled Bobby to his feet, struggling to keep him upright. “’M not leavin’ you, ‘specially not here. Benny, keep the goons back—.”

“Got ‘em,” Benny added, pulling his spare pistol from the interior pocket of his jacket.

“Dean, _go_.” The look in his eyes was unmistakable – Bobby didn't intend to leave the warehouse alive. There was an air of acceptance there, of willingness – he couldn't stand it. “Get outta here, I’ll hold ‘em off—.”

“ _Fuck_ that, man!” Part of him knew he was shouting, _knew_ he could give away their location, despite the blast from Benny’s gun obscuring his argument. “Ain’t you or Benny gonna die on me today, I ain’t havin’ your blood on my hands. You’re not leavin’ me, y’hear?” Bobby nodded, hazed. “C’mon, walk, _move_ —.”

The blinding light of the midday sun greeted them beyond the exit door, Dean dragging him into the alley where the Chevy had been parked, Bobby slumping at his side. He dragged the man despite his protests, cursing along the way until they were backed into the vehicle, Dean throwing open the passenger side door. “Damnit, Bobby, c’mon!”

Bobby gripped his wrist, hold faltering. “Boy, _stop_.” He did with reluctance, automatic, helping to sit the man at the back wheel well, placing both Bobby’s and his hand over the wound in his chest, clutching the wet fabric, red seeping between their fingers. “Look,” Bobby started, swallowing around the red welling in his mouth, “call your brother, tell him you’re goin’ out there. Tell him what happened.”

He couldn't bite back the whine that clawed its way from his throat, his fingers instinctively grasping tighter, hoping it would heal the wound. Bring him _back_. “C’mon,” he said, choked, “don’t say stuff like that.”

A clean hand moved to cup his cheek, sliding minutely. “You done good, boy. You done—,” a cough, “—you—.”

No amount of calling his name brought him back to the surface. Dean shook him by the shoulders against the sun-warmed metal of his Chevrolet, hands vibrating from nerves, breaths burning in his chest. “C’mon, you’re fine, Bobby, you’re fine—.” No answer; red-rimmed eyes watched a spot over his shoulder, unfocused, glassy. _No_. “You’re gonna be fine.” A sob shook itself free from his throat, wetness stinging his eyes. His skin was still warm to the touch under his fingers, Dean’s thumbs wiping the blood that had spilled from Bobby’s mouth. “Gonna get you to a doc, get you patched up, see?”

It was useless; he didn't want to believe it. _Couldn't_. Footsteps sounded off from behind him, a set of hands clamping down on his shoulders. _Benny_ , he knew; he shook him off, shoving away his best friend in favor of the dead man in his grip, senseless words he could barely recognize pouring from his mouth. “You gotta let ‘im go, brother,” Benny said, gentle. “Dean, let him—.”

“No!” At that, Benny backed away, hands in the air. “They killed—they killed my _dad_ ,” Dean grit out, struggling to hold back the sob threatening to break free, the pain in his throat, body. “He’s not dead, can’t be— _Can’t_ be—.”

In the background, strange men were shouting to drag out the bodies into the parking lot and stuff them in the back of their cruisers. Something about burying them where no one would find them. To him, the only noise he heard was that of his own agony, tears streaming down his cheeks, unbidden.

He let Bobby’s hand fall.

-+-+-+-+-+-

By the grace of God or some other entity, he managed to pick himself up off the floor to go to the funeral. Sam had been in charge of arranging the burial and gathering the guests at Dean’s insistence, only having stayed on the phone long enough to spare the slightest of details, long enough to say their friend-turned-father was laying in a funeral home waiting to be embalmed and laid in the ground. According to the will he found in the bottom of the roll top desk in his former bedroom, he was to be buried in a plot in Oakland Cemetery next to his late wife, both beneath a dogwood tree. It sounded peaceful; it only tore his heart apart to even consider it.

It took Sam three days to reach Atlanta by train. Or, that was how long he said – the days blurred together after a while. Lying in his bed day-by-day staring at the ceiling in a cold, empty home left him out of touch with the reality around him. That his surrogate father was dead and waiting to be put in a hole, that his brother had actually traveled to _see_ him instead of leaving him to wallow in his own misery, and the police were suspiciously _not_ looking for him. Benny was nowhere to be found; the last he heard, he and Andrea were heading up the coast to New York on the first train out of Atlanta. At least they got out unscathed; he had his own hide to worry about.

The funeral was set for the day after Sam’s arrival, the plot being dug that day, hopefully before the rain began to fall. “All his friends from the library are supposed to be there,” Sam told him the morning of, helping him tie a black tie around his neck, shirt buttoned all the way up today. He was supposed to look his best; how was he supposed to make it out of the house when he was at his worst? Five days had passed since the raid at the warehouse, and Dean wanted nothing more than to throw himself in the grave and be buried by the weight of the upturned dirt. And no amount of dragging him out of the house in his Sunday best would change that.

“He left us the house in his will,” Sam said, dusting off his shoulders. “He gave you his earnings and me the Packard. Said something about you not needing two cars.”

“You could take both, for all I care,” Dean murmured. Sam’s face softened in sympathy. “I, just… Thanks, y’know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, maintaining eye contact with his shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Sam drew him into a hug, practically resting his head atop his own; when had he gotten so tall? “Bobby was my uncle too. You know I wouldn't miss this.”

“Take a village to drag you away from your girl?” He felt Sam laugh; if only he himself could. “Don't think I could drag my sorry ass outta bed if you weren’t here.”

“Leave it to me to drag you out of whatever mess you get yourself into.” With a final clap to his shoulder, Sam let his brother go, hands at his sides. “You gonna alright enough to go?”

“Probably not,” he shrugged. “’S my fault this is happenin’ anyway, might as well go face facts.”

“Dean, you _know_ it’s not your fault—.”

“No, but I tried to _warn_ him.” Dean turned to the door, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, chewing his lip. “All day, _all_ day, Sammy, I tried to warn his sorry ass that somethin’ like this was gonna happen, and he just—he told me to _leave_ him. He _died_ in my arms ‘cause I didn’t try hard enough.” He could feel Sam’s stare at his back; never once did either brother move to console the other, Sam never bothering once to force him to stop. He needed to talk to _someone_ about it. “I shoulda—shoulda made him go home. Then he’d still be here chewin’ my ass out about somethin’ I did, not about to rot in some cemetery! This is my—.”

“It’s not your _fault_ ,” Sam supplied in haste, face screwed up in a concerned scowl. “You couldn't have—.”

“I could’ve!” He spun to face his brother, eyes stinging red again. “He coulda listened to me, I coulda gotten him out faster, done _somethin_ ’ other than let him just _die_ there! He coulda—coulda held on longer. _Jesus_ , Sammy, you didn’t _see_ him. It was like he just… gave _up_.”

“His death or not, it’s not your _fault_.” He said it with confidence, like it were the only fact in the universe. “If anything, you need to be blaming the guys who _shot_ him!”

“Yeah, like I can pin a name on _all_ of them,” he growled. “Cas was the only one there, ‘n he looked like he was about to have a fuckin’ aneurism just standin’ there.”

Sam crossed his arms. “Castiel? The guy you always _talk_ about, Castiel?”

“What, you ever heard of any other guy named that?” Sam followed him into the hall and into the barren living area, furniture layered with a fine layer of dust from disuse, his coat abandoned on the couch, not even near the rack by the front door. Rain was beginning to ping off the tin roof of the porch outside. “Saw him with a damn rifle in his hand, along with the rest of ‘em.”

“And you think he’s got something to do with this?”

He pulled his coat off the couch and shrugged it on, hands shoved in his pockets. “Man, right now, I don’t know what to believe. But I swear to _God_ if he ratted me out, if he _killed_ Bobby, then I’m puttin’ a bullet between his eyes. They can throw me in the _chair_ for all I care.”

Sam didn't push it any further. Oakland Cemetery was a mile or so away from his home in the Ward, spanning over fourty-eight acres and occupying the bodies of thousands of individuals. A few hundred feet from the main brick-laid gate, a solemn gathering stood around the newly muddied earth, all dressed in black, women in ankle-length dresses and fur shawls, men with their head bowed, all carrying umbrellas. He and Sam fit in amongst the group, taking their place at the closest to the plot in the allotted chairs, the death date officially marked on the granite slab next to his wife.

Robert Steven Singer               Karen Singer  
   August 12th, 1870                April 2nd, 1869  
          July 7th, 1932                  February 1st, 1900

Depressing didn't even cover it. A steady rain pattered on their umbrellas from a dreary sky, the stone-bricked walkways slick with runoff, grass spongy beneath his feet. The attendants – some familiar from his childhood, others probably friends from the Carnegie – spoke in hushed whispers to one another on occasion, attempting to avoid the topic at hand and the oak-paneled casket in the grave with every ounce of their being. Dean didn't blame them. His shoes were more interesting than anything they had to say.

The priest, a bearded man with enough gray hair to match, never once made eye contact with him after his arrival, instead launching into the funeral rites with his bible in hand, fingering through the gold-leafed pages to find the Lord’s Prayer, the congregation bowing their heads until the last word.

Amidst the priest’s sermon, the presence at Dean’s back had him turning around, in the fear that the cops were there to shoot him down in cold blood. Instead, he spotted a man in a black suit lingering beneath a magnolia tree, rain streaking his face beneath his soaked hair, clothes sticking to his frame. Dulled blue eyes watched him, hooded, red, even at a distance. His heart panged at the sight.

“…Give him, o Lord, your peace and let your eternal light shine upon him.” The collection of ‘amens’ brought him back to the present, the priest closing his bible and tucking it back into the pocket inside his coat. “If anyone has any final words, now would be the time to speak.”

Sam was the first to move, standing from his seat to offer a brief recollection, hands folded at his front. But at his back, as Dean turned to spot the man again, he was gone, lost to the rain and the cloudy sky.

“… _Receive the Lord's blessing. The Lord bless you and watch over you. The Lord make his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you. The Lord look kindly on you and give you peace; In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, amen_ …”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Out of respect for the dearly departed, the speakeasy was closed the following day, the church and surrounding streets quiet in mourning. That didn't stop Dean from unlocking the hidden back door and sneaking into the liquor cellar and drinking more than he ever had in his life, the burn of it leaving him reeling after each swallow. Sam was still waiting for him back at the house after having been fed the lie that he was ‘going out for air.’ He couldn't stand to be anywhere near that white-walled house, not as long as he knew Sam was there or that Bobby was down the street buried under six feet of dirt and red clay. Sam could survive without him for an hour; Sam hadn’t spent the last few years alongside the man, _he_ hadn’t made a living out of running across county lines and risking his neck every waking second of the day, no. He was just a gumshoe in the big city, putting innocents behind bars and letting the guilty run free.

What a life.

The beer in the cellar adjacent would have probably done better than the swill they had left over from the last haul. Was his head supposed to feel like a grenade? The entirety of his body felt warm and relaxed, face burning with unexpected heat to the very tips of his ears. He must have been a sight, he mused, hiccupping and bringing the old jar to his lips again, downing the last of the contents and holding it up to the light. “Figured e’en you’d let m’down,” he slurred. “Can’ e’en stay full, can ya?”

The bottles of wine and whiskey refused to answer him and his plight. He cast the empty jar aside and stood on unsteady legs, making his way to the shelf and fingering down the line for the next thing he could drink. “Y’all’ll listen to me, right?” Nothing. “Good, ‘cause I need’a talk t’someone.

“See, there’s this _guy_ I like—no, like ain’t a good word for ‘im.” He took a green-glassed bottle of wine from the rack and waved it around the room, gesturing to an invisible audience. “No, I _love_ him. Him an’ his stupid hair, ‘n dumb face, ‘n the way he talks. What does _he_ know, ‘nyway?” Pulling the cork from the bottle, he tossed it aside and downed a good portion, some spilling to the cold floor. “He killed Bobby, saw ‘im do it too. He was there with the rest of ‘em, killed all my friends. Don’ even know where they took ‘em, probably dumped ‘em in a ditch somewhere.

“But no, _Cas_. Cassie o’er there, fuckin’ _Cassie_ , waltzin’ in with his gang o’ gun totin’ dicks, gotta ruin the party. Gotta _take_ from me the one person I needed! An’ he got the nerve to just _show up_ to th’ funeral! Like he _belongs_ there after what he did. Can’t just walk in like that, he crazy?” Another drink; he tossed the half-empty bottle to the floor, watching red spill across the concrete. “Shouldn’ta trusted him, shoulda known he’d fuck me over like that.

“But y’know what? Maybe I trust too much, maybe I _wanted_ to b’lieve he _liked_ me. That I wasn’ just a hole, y’know? That I _deserved_ someone like him. I don’ deserve nothin’ though. I mean look at me!” He gestured to the room. “He took _everythin’_ from me! My _dad_ , my friends, my _life_ —I could take somethin’ from him, too. Show him how much he’s _destroyed_ me!”

It was a stupid idea – his brain thought the opposite, goading him into checking if the pistol on his hip was loaded. “That’s what I’ll do. Show ‘im I don’t care. I don’t _care_ if Bobby’s dead or if my life’s gonna go down the shitter. If I can’t be happy, then he can’t either! Ain’t that how it works? Ain’t that right, Bobby?”

Silence and the closing of a door floors above were his answer. He knew what he wanted to do, _had_ to. Castiel’s home was ten miles out – he could make it there before nightfall.

-+-+-+-+-+-

The rain fell deep into the afternoon, water flowing down his street into the storm drains, the drops flowing in thin streams off his porch roof, resounding in his ears, deafening. Castiel supposed it was fitting for the mood, the weather mocking him for his transgressions, for the crimes he watched his coworkers commit. The bodies he saw dumped into the Chattahoochee, left to the gators and whatever else got them along the way. It all felt like a dream, watching them drop to the warehouse floor in splashes of red, seeing Dean frantic to escape the showdown, disappearing behind rows of crates and boxes to some exit he presumed was there. He couldn’t pretend he wasn't there; he saw the fear in Dean’s eyes at the sight of him walking in, _knew_ what he was thinking.

It wasn't his _fault_ – he never fired a single shot.

Seated on the front porch, Castiel watched the rain pour in sheets over his neighborhood and off his roof, flooding his garden and whatever else he treasured in his yard. “He thinks I did it,” he mumbled to the man sitting across from him in a wicker armchair. “He thinks I was the one that shot Robert.”

“But you didn't, right?” Gabriel was speaking to him, one foot propped up on his knee with his arms crossed. Castiel shook his head; he never even flipped the safety off his rifle. “Michael probably fired first, trigger happy son of a bitch. I _told_ you, Cassie, you shoulda stayed back with me, you didn’t need to _go_ with them—.”

“It wasn't like I had a _choice_.” Castiel leant over to rest his elbows on his knees, tugging at his hair by the root. “Naomi _forced_ me, said I’d lose my job if I didn't get in the car. I can’t _afford_ to be fired, Gabriel. I have too much on the line… I can’t—I just _can’t_.”

“So you’d rather see your boyfriend be shot to death to keep your _job_?”

“That’s not what I meant!” He stomped his bare foot to the wood paneling, Gabriel barely flinching. “That’s—they’re both—.”

“I _know_ they’re both important to you, but for _God’s_ sakes, Cassie! Your _job_ just got half of a syndicate killed, and Dean Winchester’s on the run!” He ignored the scowl Gabriel shot him, the feel of a hand gripping his knee, nails digging in through the fabric of his slacks. “Fuck, you just watched him almost _die_ and you’re over here debating whether or not you should keep your damn _job_. Is it worth that much to you?”

It wasn't – if it meant Dean’s life, it wasn't worth a damn dime. But that hadn’t stopped him from willingly getting in Naomi’s Buick with all of the other grunts at the Agency. He could have stayed behind, not proven to Dean with just a glance that he had been in on it. Coerced into spilling vital information and locations, sentenced morally innocent men to death. “Naomi threatened his life,” he confessed. “She said she would hand him over to Michael once they caught him, and… I couldn't. I couldn't let either of them hurt him, and I threw him into the fire. I signed his death warrant.”

Gabriel sat back in his chair, eyes to the ceiling. “And there’s no way to explain this to him, I take it?”

That drew a laugh out of him. “He saw me at the funeral, I saw the _anguish_ in his eyes. Like he was trying so hard to believe in me, but every instinct was telling him otherwise. He’s—He’s not the same person anymore. …He won’t ever be.”

A pause passed between them; lightning flashed high in the sky, thunder rolling through seconds after. “You know we have no choice, Cassie. What happens to him after this, he’s always gonna blame you.”

Castiel nodded. It was the entire reason three Fords were parked in the neighboring driveways, their occupants waiting for the signal like they had been the last three days. They were to protect Castiel at all costs and keep watch in the off chance Dean might come around, for revenge or otherwise. But they could only keep up their stakeout for so long, even on shifts. “They should go home,” Castiel suggested, bouncing one knee. “He’s not going to show, there’s no use in them just sitting there.”

“Better safe than sorry, that’s what I always say.” The taillights on the Ford the farthest off flashed twice; Gabriel caught sight of it first. “Someone’s coming.”

At regular intervals throughout the day, they watched vehicle after vehicle pass through their lonely neighborhood, some using it as access road to the highway, others actually living in the area. Pontiacs, Cords, Dodges, most passing by without notice. This one was different – a stark black Confederate swerved in erratic jerks into the neighborhood, clipping a bush and a mailbox before coming to rest in his driveway, barely thrown into park. The driver, one disgruntled _Dean Winchester_ , stumbled out, eyes bloodshot, lips turned into a scowl.

Both he and Gabriel stood, his brother on alert. “He’s piss drunk,” Gabriel commented, hand going for the pistol tucked into his waistband. “Should we—.”

Castiel pushed him back with narrowed eyes. “No. Let him do what he has to.”

“Hey, Castiel!” Dean slurred out, tripping over his own feet. “Get o’er here, lemme get a look at’cha! Gots somethin’ to say t’ya that you’re gonna wanna hear.”

“Cassie—.”

“Let him _speak_.” He could only hold Gabriel back for so long before he broke free to do what he wished.

“C’mere, _Castiel_.” Dean managed his way onto the porch, now brandishing a gun at him, aiming it at Castiel’s forehead. “Y’killed Bobby, you _bitch_. Saw you there,” a hiccup, followed by a strangled laugh. “I _saw_ you, lookin’ at me like you didn’—.”

“Dean.” Hands raised, Castiel took a step towards him. Gabriel was saying something in the background, his words blurred into white noise. “ _Dean_ , put the gun down.”

“ _No_.” His heart seized at the smile Dean gave, finger now pressed to the trigger. “Y’see, you took the _one_ person from me that actually acted like they _gave_ a damn. ‘N now you want me t’put the gun down? After what _you_ did?” Car doors were slamming open down the street, armed men rushing in their direction. Still, he walked forward, biting back wariness. “You _killed_ him.”

“I swear to you, Dean.” At the touch of his hand to his wrist, Dean recoiled. “I _swear_ on my _life_ , I didn’t kill Mr. Singer.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me!” The resulting blow to his face sent him stumbling into the porch railing while the pistol clattered to the floor, the muzzle tinged red with blood. His own; he could feel it streaming from the cut in his lip, dripping off his chin. Dean had dropped the weapon not of his own volition – his fellow Agent’s had rushed onto the porch and grabbed him from behind, one slamming the man to the floor, hands behind his back, head shoved into the paneling. “You _killed_ him, Castiel! You killed him, _killed him_!”

Whatever obscenities he spewed, whatever hateful speech made it past his lips, Castiel didn't hear any of it. Gabriel rushed the newly handcuffed man to his Ford and shoved him inside, leaving Castiel to stand on the porch in the middle of the storm, watching the love of his life being driven off past the tree line to the county jail, his ragged heartbeat the only thing keeping him company.

He dropped to his knees, hands in his lap. “…What have I done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this done in two days, yay! Only two more chapters to go! I'm gonna have to take a bit of a break until next week though probably, this weekend is moving weekend for me so I'm gonna be busy with that. Also, my style is doing something _really_ funky right now, so if it doesn't sound like my normal writing, I apologize. I can't tell if it's just this fic or if my contemporary fiction class is screwing me over.
> 
> I'm sorry for all the pain.


	5. Home

_July 1933  
United States Penitentiary, Atlanta_

 

“Up an’ at ‘em, Winchester. Y’got mail.”

The abruptness of the voice should have fazed him, really. Given him some reprieve from the monotony that had become his life for the past year, waking before the sun rose on most days and spending his morning after roll call in his bunk with an ever-growing stack of well-worn copies of books from the pitiful excuse for a library or whatever stashed copies of Black Mask he had snuck in from the outside. It wasn't _all_ bad, Dean considered. The food was deplorable and the schedule had him dreading the night more than anything, but at least during the daylight hours he could bide his time doing menial jobs around the facility.

Namely, making clothing. He swore, if he had to see another pair of slacks in his life, he would burn down the Woolworths or the Sears or whatever else sold his labor. If the country knew exactly who made the clothes they wore, they would petition for some sort of change. But what did that mean after their jobs were closed within the facility? What would he _do_ all day if he weren’t in a factory setting, working away his sentence sewing in rhythmic patterns day by day, waiting for the day he could breathe fresh air beyond the gates of the prison again? Maybe in twenty years, he would find out.

The guards were sympathetic of him to a point; within the first month, he had gone from the brooding outsider that even the _authorities_ didn't speak to past their version of pleasantries, to a celebrity amongst the shackled bootleggers and criminal masterminds locked behind bars for all of twenty hours a day. For once, the charm of his personality worked to his advantage, giving him a bit more leeway around the grounds, even working a bribe into one of the guards – Gadreel Anderson, with perpetually narrowed eyes and scowl to match – into delivering his mail from the outside without the oversight of the wardens, all for a small fee. As long as he kept the money coming, he could keep ties with Benny and Sam, his brother still trying to circumvent the system and get him off on a lighter sentence.

In the year Dean had been incarcerated, he hadn’t heard a word from Castiel. The name hadn’t been spoken to him since the first month, now a faint memory niggling in the back of his brain when he slept. Phantom voices called to him in his dreams, conjuring unrecognizable images, yet somehow resembling a face he could barely remember. _What was he doing now_? he would find himself wondering as the darkness overcame him on the rarest of nights, when the urge to escape from the iron bars was at its strongest. Not that Castiel cared about him, of course. If he did, he would have sent him _something_ , anything with some sort of explanation as to why he did what he did. Not leaving him to rot in some cell, his only friends being those who snuck him magazines under the sleeves of their jumpsuits or talked to him around cell doors.

The others didn't care whether he lived or died. They knew his story, his reputation; to them, he was just another rat off the street. The son of the great John Winchester, locked up once and for all. Gadreel didn't even bother to speak to him half the time, keeping his lips sealed before looking around the corridors and slipping sheets of sealed white paper in through the door slot while Dean handed off whatever currency he had managed to get in his last letter.

Today, the guard was in an eerily chipper mood, offering him eight words and a rap on the bars. More than he had spoken to him in the last month, for certain. Wrestling himself from atop his sheets, Dean dragged his bare feet across the concrete floor of his cell, meeting Gadreel and taking two envelopes, hiding them in his waistband before handing over a five-dollar bill, all with no one to bear witness. “What’s got you in a mood?” Dean asked, keeping his vigilance on the activity around him, the cells facing him across the cavernous lobby, the guards walking the upper floors.

“Sun’s finally out today,” was the guard’s reply. “’Course, you wouldn’t know that. Speaking of, you’re looking a bit pale.” He shoved the money into his interior jacket pocket and tapped the bars with his nightstick. “I think a break in the yard would do you good today.”

Since when did _he_ care? Still, Dean thanked him and returned to his bunk once Gadreel left him to his business, unwilling to take any chances with what they gave him. It had been raining the past two weeks, several of the inmates beginning to complain of the dreariness of it all, one even attempting to take his life in a cell not far from his. Locking the guy in solitary probably didn't do anything to better his mental state, either. The first day of natural sunlight had the masses rushing to their doors whenever the sun ventured through the windows along the ceiling in their direction, taking in whatever they could get. In an hour, it would be his turn, he figured.

For now, Dean laid back in his cot and pulled a copy of _The Glass Key_ from beneath his mattress, taking from beneath his uniform both letters and, unfolding them, stuffed them inside. The first was typical; a message from Benny, talking about his new life in New York City, running a fishing venture off the docks. _Definitely nothing to do with the booze_ , he had written; whether he was lying or not, he could never tell. For all he knew, he could have been shipping it off to Europe under the guise of military supplies. The five dollars hidden in the envelope, he shoved between the pages of _The Maltese Falcon_ and hid under the far end of his mattress.

The second he expected to be from Sam. Instead, he pulled a folded sheet from inside an envelope with a hastily scrawled ‘ _Dean_ ’ across the front, his heart plummeting, throat inexplicably tight. He knew that handwriting.

> _Dean,_
> 
> _Your brother called me last week asking for the paperwork regarding your incarceration, in the off chance he could get your sentence lightened or thrown out altogether. I sent it to him, but I have no idea what to expect. He thinks that if you turn over Crowley and his operation, they’ll let you free. I’m undecided on the matter – they have credible proof that you have ties with the Atlanta mob, and you’ve been racking up attempted murder charges since you were a teenager. You’re lucky you got what you have, as much as I’m loath to admit it._
> 
> _I haven’t been able to contact you in the past year due to the fallout at the Agency regarding the death of Mr. Singer and his associates. Even knowing that, I’m… unsure of what to say to you, anymore. I know you think the worst of me, if you think of me at all, but I want you to know I had nothing to do with the raid. I wanted no part of it. If you hate me for this, or anything else I’ve done to wrong you, I understand. The hate you feel for me can’t match that of which I feel for myself._
> 
> _I need to speak to you, Dean. In person, not on paper. Maybe then, you’ll believe what I have to say. With your word, I’ll come to the penitentiary to visit you. I feel I’ve exhausted my means of working to save you, but your brother has a valid point._
> 
> _You told me last year that you wanted us to go to Los Angeles and start over. Give me the chance to make it up to you._
> 
> _Castiel_

He nearly dropped the book on his face at the impact of the letter, setting off a suppressed fire in his heart just at the thought of Castiel sitting down to write out those words in that elegant script of his, ink bleeding through to the back of the page, stained and curled at the edges by some indeterminate liquid. What was he supposed to do? Did Castiel actually expect him to write back, that it would all get better if they just talked it out? _Fat chance_ , was his opinion. He shoved the letter into a barely-read copy of _As I Lay Dying_ and tossed it into the corner. If Castiel wanted any sort of respect from him, then he needed to try harder. Letters wouldn't be about to drag him back.

It took him another two days to consider even writing back, pulling the note out of the discarded Faulkner novel and reading it over another three times before coming to a decision – he had to turn Castiel down. No matter how much both he and Sam wanted him back among the land of the free, there was nothing waiting for him out there. Unless Sam had managed to save his house, it was probably out of his hands, along with whatever money he had stuffed in the safe beneath the floorboards. Getting a job would be useless, too, with his reputation; even if he moved out west, _someone_ would figure out his former occupation and use it to their advantage.

The world was better off with him where he was, he decided.

> _Castiel,_
> 
> _Don’t bother coming. Give it up and let me go._
> 
> _Dean_

Gadreel took the letter the next day, along with another reply for Benny, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief once they were out of sight, virtually out of mind for the next week. No one asked about the sullenness of his mood or the fact that even in the yard, he never spoke more than absolutely necessary, keeping his mind on the playing cards in his hands or the book he snuck under his clothing. His only visitor came in the form of Aaron Bass, arrested for theft and arson in Savannah two years prior, and the only person Dean could call a friend in the prison.

“So your agent buddy _really_ sent you a letter?” Aaron commented, head propped up in his hands on the wooden picnic table they shared, Dean laying across the top with his arms folded and eyes closed to the endless blue sky. “He do this before?”

“Nope.” Dean shrugged with a deflating sigh, crossing one ankle over the other. He really needed to remember shoes next time. “Probably never thought about it, either. I mean you’d figure, you just put your fuckin’ _boyfriend_ in jail, you’d go visit him, right?”

“Maybe he’s trying to make up for it?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aaron watching him with genuine interest, bordering on concern. “I mean, hell, if _I_ put you in a place like this, _I’d_ sure as hell come see you. And not just because you’re a pretty face.”

He couldn't help the blush that threatened to creep up his neck, instead turning his face away in the off chance it would keep him from seeing the thrill Aaron got from his embarrassment. “You ever gonna quit it with that?”

“With what, hitting on you?” Aaron laughed at that, resting both hands on the table. “You’re pretty much taken, so there’s no chance for me there.” A pause; around them, inmates were chatting amongst themselves, their feet crunching dried grass with each step they took. “So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“About what? The ‘you tryin’ to cop a feel in the shower’ thing? Or the ‘talking to my ex’ thing?”

“Talking to your ex.” Aaron leaned forward, the tabletop creaking under the added weight of his arms. “If it’s true what he’s saying—.”

“Ain’t nothin’ ‘bout it true,” Dean growled. “If he wanted to talk to me, he’d’ve done it by now. He’s chased me around Georgia for five years ‘n all of a sudden he wants to get a life _away_ from that?”

“What if he means well?” Aaron was staring at him again, eyes soft, concerned. “He’s obviously been busy, and you know there’s been talk around the joint that they’re thinking of repealing the amendment—.”

“Wait, they’re what?” That stupid amendment was the entire reason he was _in_ this mess, and the sole reason Castiel had a job. Was it out of desperation, then? Trying to free him before he didn’t have the authority anymore? It was a sweet sentiment, but it meant nothing to him. “Since when did that happen?”

Aaron shrugged. “Capone’s guys’ve been talking lately, they’ve got ears on the outside.” Of _course_ Capone would still have ties to Chicago and elsewhere; what else did he expect from that man? In his year there, he had only seen the guy once, during a transport from one side of the prison to the other, presumably away from the rougher inmates. “Banning booze was a bad idea to begin with, I guess everyone’s just now catching on.”

“So what? I’m in here ‘cause the president thought it was a good idea to dry us out? Like _that’s_ ever worked.” Dean sat up and shook his head, running fingers through sweat-damp hair, scratching at unshaved stubble. “It ain’t gonna mean anything for me, even if they _do_ repeal it.”

“No, but I’m pretty sure even _you_ don’t wanna spend the rest of your life here.” Aaron scooted closer, voice lowered to a whisper. “There’s talk they’re building a prison out west that they’re gonna send Capone to, and every other runner in this joint. So I’m saying this to you as a friend, Dean,” Aaron paused to pat Dean’s knee, squeezing it for emphasis, “get out while you can. I got a year left, they won’t take me. But _you_ , boy. _You_ , they’ll have a field day with.”

The thought of being transferred out of the prison had never once crossed his mind through the entirety of his stay there. But the thought of it, of having to readjust in an environment he was only now starting to become accustomed to, to having to deal with new guards who wouldn't be as lenient on him, who wouldn't _care_ , made his stomach turn. It was enough of a motivator for Dean to continually check with Gadreel every afternoon, in the off chance that Castiel hadn’t paid attention to his last letter, had completely ignored what he said and sent him another reply, begging him to reconsider.

No such luck came to him in the following week, until the summer sun overhead turned the already overheated building into a sweltering hotbed of frustration in early August, the threat of riots always around the corner. Castiel wasn't coming for him, he decided. At least now, they could both start their lives over, Castiel on the outside enjoying his freedom and Dean struggling to survive on the barest of rations, hoping he would wake up the next morning with the inkling of a chance that something better would happen, that he would be taken away from that Hell.

_He doesn’t care about me._

The next letter arrived on the second Thursday of August, Gadreel barely bothering to knock on the bars before slipping it into his cell, the envelope sliding across the floor and lodging itself under his bed. Unceremoniously he tossed _The Beautiful and Damned_ to the end of his cot and reached under the bunk, pulling the tanned paper out and holding it up to the light. ‘ _Cas_ ’ was scribbled on the front – _he’s still here._ He made a trip to the cell bars to determine if any guards were in the vicinity before he ripped it open, reading it with unsteady hands.

> _Dean,_
> 
> _I understand that you don’t exactly think you deserve to be saved, but I’m willing to make an exception. As of right now, you’re currently on a prospective transfer list to San Francisco at the end of next year, and I would very much like for you to reconsider your original stance._
> 
> _I’m afraid this time, though, you have no choice. I’m visiting the penitentiary on August tenth, and we’re going to discuss this at length. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m not going to leave you in there to rot._
> 
> _I’ll see you Thursday._
> 
> _Castiel_

_Great_ – Castiel was coming to visit him and he didn’t even know what the _date_ was. The pitiful excuse for a calendar on the wall wasn't exactly useful when all of the days blended into one. The only reason he knew Sunday’s existed was because all inmates were invited to service on the lawn, if they felt the need to have Jesus in their lives. God wasn't going to help them – why would he start now?

He put the letter off for another hour, settling back into the weathered hardback in his hands and falling into the rhythm of Anthony and Gloria’s conversations with unsettled ease; a harsh bang to the cell bars jolted him upright, nearly clocking his head on the unoccupied bunk above him. “Winchester, got a visitor.”

He shouldn't have been eerily excited as he was. The idea of leaving his cell on a good day left him optimistic for hours until he was sealed behind iron gates for the foreseeable future – now, all he could feel was foreboding and the knowledge that he would see Castiel again, for the first time in over a year. With that, he set his book down and allowed both Gadreel and another guard to lock him into his shackles, both escorting him down the hall with their hands to his elbows while the others inmates shouted at him along the way, rattling their cages and spewing lewd comments in his wake.

At least _he_ was going somewhere.

-+-+-+-+-+-

A year’s worth of distance did absolute travesties to people, Castiel concluded. He still couldn't believe his eyes – sitting across from him, with an unkempt beard and black bags beneath those same iridescently green eyes was Dean Winchester, dressed in a black-and-white jumpsuit with the inmate number 1019 patched onto the front over his heart. He hadn’t been eating much, he guessed, Dean’s face more gaunt than ever, frail-looking fingers resting on the table before them, a single glass pane separating them. If not for the guard glaring in his direction from the back wall, he would have touched the glass, offered his hand. Even if he did, he would have bet good money that Dean wouldn't have obliged him.

Instead, he pulled a cigarette from the pack in his suit pocket and lit it, doing anything to stop from having to look at the man before him, a shell of what he once was. The youth he once possessed, the vibrancy of his happiness, of all that he was formerly capable of, now left to rot in the middle of an invented Hell. Blowing smoke from between his lips, he tapped the cigarette out on the glass ashtray provided, picking up a black-handled phone from the sidewall. Dean mirrored his action, clearly reluctant.

Where was he supposed to start? “You’re looking…decent,” Castiel said, flat. It was neutral ground – if anything, they could start off on a good note.

“That all you got to say to me?” _Or not_. Dean folded one arm across his torso, gripping the fabric of his uniform with the phone pressed to his ear. “That I’m looking _decent_? God, it’s been a year an’ you still ain’t learned any tact.” Dean sat back in his chair, lips quirked up in an agonized smirk. “Look, you got somethin’ to say, say it. ‘Cause I got things to do, if you don’t mind.”

“You really don’t.” Before him, Dean rolled his eyes. “What have you been doing, anyway?”

Dean lowered his head, muttering something away from the receiver that looked oddly like a curse. “Reading. I probably made that jacket you’re wearin’ too.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at that, belatedly looking for an inspection number in the interior of his clothing. “They’re putting you to work?”

“Most of us. Some of us make clothes, lotta people wash dishes or make license plates. Ain’t really much else to do ‘sides that.”

With a sigh, Castiel picked up his cigarette again; this was going to be a long conversation, he knew. Even then, he still couldn't find the words he wanted to say. _I missed you_ , _I’m sorry it came to this_ , _I’m trying to help you_. Life hadn’t been exactly the easiest on him in the last year, either. The aftermath of the raid and the subsequent shakedown of his agency, along with their consolidation into the Federal Bureau of Investigation, left them with half of the staff they had now. “I received my two week notice on Monday,” Castiel confided, watching Dean’s expression fall. “We’ve received word that Roosevelt is shutting us down at the end of the year, so they’re letting all staff go by the end of August.”

“Damn,” Dean breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Take it all your buddies are out on their asses?”

“Michael and the majority of the upper staff were fired last July.” He hoped Dean didn't catch the hitch of his breath around the final two words; broaching the topic of the raid too soon would only end with disastrous results. “It appears they were caught drinking the profits, after which Michael gave a _rousing_ monologue including the name of everyone who ever visited a speakeasy in the last five years.”

Dean snorted at that, the first hint of a smile teasing his lips. “Looks like Mr. Stoic over there can’t handle his shine,” Dean remarked, voice indifferent.

“There were more accusations than Naomi could handle,” Castiel replied. “After the investigation, she got tired of everyone pointing fingers and fired half of the office. We haven’t had the manpower to actively pursue other runners, so we’ve mostly been limited to overdue desk work.”

“Tragic.” Dean rapped his nails on the table, chewing his lip. “So, you gonna say it?”

“…Say what?”

“You know _damn_ well what.” Dean sat forward, leaning with both elbows on the tabletop. “I want you to _admit_ it.”

“Dean,” Castiel growled, crushing the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray. Was that all Dean wanted? An admission of guilt to a crime he didn't commit? “I didn’t kill Mr. Singer. You _know_ I wouldn't.”

Dean laughed at that, feigning amusement. “Sweetheart, right now I don’t know _what_ to believe. All I know is, I saw your ass there with a gun in your hand. So you _prove_ to me you _didn’t_ —.”

“Dean, I _swear_ —.”

“That didn’t stop you before!” Castiel jerked back at the sound of Dean’s fist colliding with the wood-paneled surface between them, rattling the glass; the guard made a move to end the conversation, Castiel waving him away. Dean started again, voice dropping to a hiss, “I saw you, Castiel. I saw you ‘n everyone else there. I _never_ shoulda stayed with you, man. Fuck, I thought I’d covered my tracks, ‘n then you and your whole posse come bargin’ in like you own the damn place! And then you go ‘n do that—.”

“Dean—.”

“Don’t you _dare,_ Castiel,” Dean growled, voice pure intent. “Don’t you _dare_ say you didn’t—.”

“I didn’t kill Bobby! It was _Michael_ , Dean!” Castiel shouted into the receiver, Dean’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I tried everything to stop them, I tried to lead them in the wrong direction. I gave them false leads, I tried to get them to call it off! Michael and Naomi forced it out of me! I did everything I _could_ , and despite that… Despite that, it still ended the way it did. …I couldn't keep them away from you.” He paused to swallow past the tears threatening to well over; he couldn't bear to see the look on Dean’s face. “…And for that, I’m sorry, Dean. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

Dean didn't respond immediately; he had every right to ignore him, to shove away whatever he said and pass it off as a lie. In Dean’s situation, he would have done the same thing, even left the room and never bothered to see him again. But instead, he found Dean watching him through red-rimmed eyes, hands white knuckling the space between them, three of his fingers pressed to the glass. Castiel met his touch, placing the pads of his fingers against Dean’s; he could have sworn he felt warmth there, felt all the anguish Dean had endured in the past year. The heartache, the longing, the need to be told he would make it, that he would _survive_.

What had he _done_?

“I wanna go home,” were Dean’s next words, filled with every bit of emotion he had suppressed in the last year. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, soaking into his beard, eyelids doing nothing to stop the flood. “I wanna go _home_ , Cas.”

“I’m trying,” Castiel croaked out. “Believe me, I’m doing everything in my power to get you out. Which is why I need you to _help me_.” He watched Dean lower the phone for a good few seconds, his haggard breaths audible even through the glass. Behind him, the guard made no move to intervene. “Crowley is back in Atlanta with a new team. We have suspicions as to where he is, but we need you to help us. The Bureau needs names and locations, and I promise you, I’ll try to get you out of here.” He placed his full hand on the glass, Dean mirroring the gesture. “ _Please_ , Dean.”

Slowly, Dean nodded across from him, smiling with tears in his eyes. “I’ll tell you whatever you need t’know, man.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

It took until mid-November before another raid was enacted on Crowley’s operations in Atlanta, this time at the Pullman Yard. Forty people plus the boss himself were arrested and hauled off in the back of vans, taken immediately to the county jail and booked on a range of charges. Murder, transportation of illegal spirits, gambling within the city limits, assault – whatever the Bureau could charge them for was immediately added to the growing list, until they were sure no one would ever leave the penitentiary alive.

In exchange for his word and after several interviews with the Bureau itself, all with Castiel in the room, Dean’s sentence was lowered from twenty years to only one, all under constant supervision from the guards in the instance that someone found the chance to shiv him in the yard for squealing on the boss. All eyes were on Dean at every hours, waiting for him to make a move. Even Aaron was a no show, keeping his distance out of absolute fear.

Dean didn't like it. Even locked in his cell day by day, he felt like his life were in danger, death always waiting around the corner in the form of men in striped jumpsuits or guards with no concern for his safety.

The only thing that made it bearable was Castiel, visiting him bi-monthly with updates on the proceedings of his incarceration. It shouldn't have been as easy as it was, them falling back into each other’s lives like there wasn't a glass pane separating them from actually touching one another. It gave him something to live for, though. Something to keep him breathing at night, to keep marking the days on the calendar on his wall, until the pages read December of 1934, and Gadreel was finally leading him to be discharged.

Outside the gates, wearing the same clothes he was arrested in two years before and with a box of novels in his hands, Dean found Castiel leaning against the side of his Chevy Confederate, a smile threatening the edges of his lips, growing wider the further he walked away from the barbed wire gates. He dropped the box halfway to him, Castiel meeting him the rest of the way and pulling Dean into his arms, Dean burying his face in Castiel’s neck, uncaring of the scratch of his stubble or how sharp his nails were.

He needed a shower and a decent meal – but for now, he had Castiel. “Never thought I’d see you out here again,” he said, for once sounding optimistic. Hopeful, even.

“I never gave up hope,” Castiel answered and kissed his cheek, hands cupping the back of Dean’s neck. “I knew you’d make it.”

“C’mon,” Dean sighed, hiding a shy smile; he made no attempt to move. “My house still there?”

Castiel nodded, humming as he pressed their foreheads together. “I was living there while you were away. Your brother’s idea, actually.”

“God bless Sammy.” He patted Castiel’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of him; the leather of his car, the smell of his bed. Vanilla and sugar. _Home_. “Let’s get outta this rat hole town, then. Whaddya say to that?”

Castiel kissed him then, the taste of his lips still familiar after all that time. “I packed all your things, including your safe. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

“Start ‘er up, then.” With reluctance, Dean pulled himself away and walked to the passenger side of his car, running his hands along the black exterior, reveling in the fact that he could _touch_ her again. She was back in his life – they both were. “Let’s blow this town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did a shitload of research for this chapter and found out that during the early 1930s, they actually did have prisoners making clothing until the public found out. Also, Al Capone was actually at Atlanta's penitentiary until 1934 when they transferred him to Alcatraz. And also, I think Dean would dig Black Mask and Faulkner, especially the stream of consciousness stuff. (I really like noir, if you didn't notice.)


	6. Epilogue

_May 1939  
Glendale, California_

 

“You up for a drive today?” Castiel asked him over his shoulder, looking down at the arrangement of papers spread out before Dean, filled top to bottom with block print separated by empty lines. “Or are you planning on writing all day again?”

Dean chuckled lightly, pushing back into Castiel’s hold as he draped his arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to the top of Dean’s ear. “There’s only so many times we can go to Malibu before it starts to get boring,” Dean complained, pointedly ignoring the line of kisses being trailed down his neck. “We’ve been down there twice this week already—damnit, _stop_ that, ‘m tryin’ to _work_.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” Castiel gave him a final peck before pulling away, rounding the bar in the kitchen – _their_ kitchen, he still couldn't believe it – and walking to the living room. _Theirs_ , he chanted to himself. The house, the yard, the stupid white picket fence out front and the driveway where their cars sat, freshly washed – all of it was theirs _. Together_.

Ten years ago, Dean wouldn't have thought it was possible to have a life outside of running moonshine through the mountains of Appalachia. During the hottest of nights in the shadow of the Hollywood Hills, he would still find himself lying awake with Castiel curled up behind him, thinking it was all a dream. That he was still in a jail cell fantasizing about what could have been and what almost wasn’t. But it was there, spread out all around him. The white-walled home they bought after spending a month in hotels in Los Angeles with the detached garage and extra bedroom upstairs for when Sam drove down for the weekend, the serialization deal Dean had nailed down two years before with Black Mask and subsequent novelization, Castiel’s work with Metro-Goldwyn Mayer as a script consultant and supervisor – none of it seemed real.

Even seeing his name for the first time in print had been a shock. Granted, under a pseudonym – Dean Winchester was still hiding from the law in Georgia somewhere, never to be heard from again. Castiel successfully made his exit from the defunct Bureau of Prohibition, the department no longer necessary since the twenty-first amendment finally let liquor run free in the streets again. Presumably from what Castiel’s brother told them after the dissolution, the rest of the department were either inducted officially into the FBI or left altogether, Gabriel taking a job in Washington D.C., some of the other agents following suit.

But for them, life was easy. Simple. A monotony he could get used to, albeit still looking over his shoulder from time to time. The fear would always be there, of one of Crowley’s men on the outside shoving a gun in his face and blowing him away, leaving Castiel to bury his body alone. But he wasn't Dean Winchester anymore – at least, on paper. Lawrence Smith was a new crime novelist in the Los Angeles area, with an unknown past and equally mysterious story to tell. Dean would know – he had a lot to draw from.

As peaceful as suburban Glendale was, he needed a break; the beach, despite its quaint, undisturbed charm, was more of a hassle to get to than anything else. They made day trips of it, leaving in the pre-dawn hours to drive the distance through the hills in Castiel’s Packard, staying the day on the shore before heading back just as the sun began to sink below the horizon. It didn't sound half bad. If Castiel had suggested it earlier, rather than at nine in the morning, he might have considered it. “…Actually, I was thinkin’ we might go up to the Observatory today.”

Castiel looked up from his spot on the couch, the top of his newspaper folding down to expose the glasses on his face, falling down his nose. “You never want to go into the hills,” Castiel added, accusatory. “Are you planning something?”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean chided. He abandoned his work and walked into the living room, sitting in the armchair at Castiel’s side, all while watching his attentive gaze. “’S it so hard to believe that I wanna go somewhere that’s _not_ the city for once?”

“You don’t ever want to go anywhere _but_ the city.” Castiel cocked an eyebrow at him. “If I didn't know better, _Dean Winchester_ , I’d say you have something up your sleeve.”

 _Damn_ , Castiel was smarter than he looked. “Now, that would spoil the surprise, wouldn't it?”

He nearly missed the squeak Castiel made; Castiel never _was_ one for surprises, but at least with the heads-up, Dean wouldn't have to endure the harsh glances he was prone to get. Especially after Castiel’s birthday _last_ year; sure, the studio thought it was a great idea for their supervisor’s boyfriend to bring him flowers during the workday, but the talking-to he got afterwards had him rethinking all future celebrations. In public, at least. The observatory was something he had been planning for the last month, down to the set or rings he custom ordered.

Sure, they couldn't get married, but he could do the next best thing.

“I don’t trust you,” Castiel said, tone rushed and breathless. “I swear, if you’re planning something—.”

He reached across the gap between them and took Castiel’s hand in his, linking their fingers together. “C’mon, Cas, you know me. You think I’d do that to you?”

“Yes.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe _last_ year. But not now, man! I’m tryin’ to make today special, you know I wouldn’t do anythin’ like that!”

Castiel folded his newspaper and set it on the wooden coffee table, turning his full attention to Dean. “Okay, so _why_ now, out of all other days of the year, would you be planning on making a day of taking me to the Observatory?”

“Do I need to tell you _everything_?” Tightening the grip on Castiel’s hand, Dean turned his eyes to the floor, kicking at the carpet with a bare toe. “Can’t you just—let some things be a surprise?”

“Not when— _Oh_.” Castiel’s eyes widened in realization, a pang running through Dean at the sight. _No, no, no, he knows_. “Dean,” he said, voice wavering. “Is—Is that why you were in town this week, you were buying—.”

“Surprise, Cas, _surprise_.” He bowed his head in defeat and dug in his back pocket, pulling out two gold-plated rings. “Well, guess that cat’s out the bag.”

Castiel’s sudden grip on his hand had Dean flinching and shooting his friend a pained look. “Dude, I can’t put this on you if you don't stop tryin’ to break my _hand_.”

Thankfully, Castiel let him go long enough to let Dean slip one of the bands onto his ring finger, the gold gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the open windows. “I know we can’t make this legal on paper, but…” Dean loosened the collar of his shirt and rubbed the back of his neck while Castiel took the other ring, slipping it onto Dean’s hand. “…I really don’t see us bein’ apart any time soon. ‘N I don’t want us to be, either.”

Castiel joined their hands again, alternating between looking at his banded finger and Dean’s, breath coming in short bursts. “So, this is your way of asking me to marry you?” Castiel asked, finally looking up to meet his eyes. How were they so _blue_? “I—I thought you would have done it sooner.”

Dean actually laughed at that, eyes crinkling with mirth. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout it, but I tossed the first set I bought.” Castiel’s face softened at the mention, Dean continuing, “We were stopped in Dallas and I found this shop, but… After we got here, I realized… they weren’t good enough for you. ‘N I finally found the right ones on Sunset—.”

Castiel stopped his senseless rambling with a quick kiss, hands pressed to his cheeks and pulling him closer until Dean fell into the hold, hands lost in the fabric of Castiel’s shirt, going straight for the buttons. “Never thought you’d commit to it,” Castiel said between kisses, finally managing to tug Dean from his chair and onto the couch, somehow managing to escape injury. “Yes, you idiot. _Yes_.”

“ _Fuck_ , you’re the best, you know that?” And Castiel smiled against his lips before capturing them again, now with the intent to never let go.

Dean never would, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The observatory being talked about is the Griffith Observatory. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me until the end, guys! I'm on spring break now, so I knocked the entirety of chapter five and the epilogue today. So if you've been reading from the beginning, thank you for doing so! If not, I hope you enjoyed the pain-fest! : __D

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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